


Hawacabra's Storm

by UndercoverSquib



Category: Private Practice
Genre: Ambiguous/Open Ending, Angst, Capitalism, Existential Crisis, F/F, F/M, High School, Infidelity, Mental Health Issues, Multi, Other, Self-Insert, Teacher-Student Relationship, UST, University, Unrequited Love, bff
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-28
Updated: 2018-06-28
Packaged: 2019-05-29 20:03:35
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 32
Words: 427,441
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15080696
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/UndercoverSquib/pseuds/UndercoverSquib
Summary: Should the goats be allowed to roam?





	1. Chapter 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Je suis malade

There was once a pillow princess goat who was destined to be sacrificed for the space mission. She was smart and headed for greatness despite the trifling steps it'll take to get there.

Her friends Abs and Ames were busy all day and are asleep in the farm now, but the goat just can't seem to do the same and be a good girl.

And so the goat trolls around outskirts of the farm, eyemojing towards the darker distance. Only the moving clouds allowing for moonlight.

That is how she eventually stumbles upon a harried looking grey goose in the pond, half of its head submerged in the water.

The goat stares for a moment, wondering if it's dead. Could anything be that stupid? To forget they're not actually breathing?

Judging from the shaken look from the goose as it abruptly comes up from air, it might just be as inept as the first impression.

Anyway, the goat is bored and strikes up a conversation. Well--A one sided conversation, but nevertheless, words are formed and _blepped_.

Talking at it non-stop seems to do the trick. Despite the mildly aggrieved expression on its already harried form, it begrudgingly floats closer to the edge, side eyeing where the goat is resting primly on the soft slope of greenery as it complains about its long fucking day.

Noncommittal noises of response from the goose can be heard every now and then as it languidly floats in the pond, aimless.

Doesn't really stop the goat from coming back every other night or so, until it becomes frequent to have something alive to talk at.

"Don't you have other live animals to blep to?" The goose finally speaks a few nights later, making her pause in her excited rant about farm shenanigans.

Rude.

"I do," She eventually answers, offended.

"Then why are you..." The goose raises a wing, gesturing to the environment around them. "Disturbing the peace?"

"Oi," The goat bleats, mulish. "I can't have new friends?"

The goose frowns. "You can, just--You already talk about the current ones enough. Why keep adding more nuisance?"

Glaring, the goat turns its nose up. "Well maybe I'm being nice. Why are you being mean?"

"I'm not being mean, I'm confused," The goose points out.

"Well you're clearly lonely!"

The goose squints. "I'm not. I'm at peace." The goose floats around the pond aimlessly as if proving the point. "Well, I _was_."

The gall of this grey goose! The goat bleats and bleats, jumping over and over in offence. It only garners a judging look.

Well she'll show it!

» 

The goat doesn't return for a few nights.

The goose frowns, shrugging and continuing in the solitary enjoyment of nature.

» 

The goat begrudgingly returns, ears angled down.

Floating on the further edge of the pond, the goose attributes the sight to a hallucination. Eventually nearing the little cliff-like plateau ting that overlooks the pond, the goat is unfortunately revealing itself to be a genuine reality.

Amongst other things.

"What's wrong with you?" The goose asks, squinting at its mildly harried form.

The goat's head lowers even more at the question, displeased. "Got in trouble back in the farm. Wasn't allowed a shower."

Can a goat pout even without lips? The goose shakes its head like that could shake the ridiculous question away. 

"Hmm. So you sneak out, this late, something that might get you in more trouble anyway?"

The glare is full of disdain. The goose shrugs. "Well go on then, if your delicate sensibilities won't get in the way," The goose gestures with its head to the rest of the pond, "Have a go."

The dubious pair of eyes never really settle down until the goat is in the shallow end of the pond, splashing around. Watching the eventual enjoyment is an odd feeling for the goose so it looks away, squinting at a tree. 

"So anyway today the humans Ads and Rubes were having a row and Ads was throwing stuff at the goat pen to hear us bleat at first 'cos he's a sadist. Then he opened the pen and let us all roam but set the annoying doggos free to chase us. T'was a mess," The goat rants.

"Okey," The goose responds. "I mean, you should stage a revolution, you farm lot, and then set an 'accident' so he expires but whatever."

The goat glares. "He feeds us. And he gives us a place to stay and anyway he's not so bad sometimes."

Squinting, the goose nods. "Mkay."

Finding this a good opportunity since the goose is actually talking for once, the goat pries. "Anyway, what's your story? Why you here all the time alone? Where you from?"

An eyemoji is what she gets.

"Whaaat?" The goat whines.

"You're persistent," The goose points out.

The goat holds her head high, proud. "Well yeah!"

"Then maybe you'll get your answers someday," The goose mutters, shook by the blatant positivity. So off-putting. But then remembering how badly off the goat was coming back, oddly the goose might not prefer that either.

The goose gets to dry land, shakes off a bit of water and leaves.

»

"--And then he was like, 'you should volunteer' and I was like '???' I can't believe him you know--"

"You talk about him alot," The goose points out.

The goat frowns. "What?"

The goose only gives her a wry look in reply.

"Oi," The goat protests, mulish. "I tell you about farm stuff and my day--He's a part of it. Mr. Cooper oversees the our barn management and stuff. But he's into the free-range philosophy which is something that shouldn't be radical but like???"

The goose nods slowly. "Yep."

The goat narrows her eyes before jumping off the small cliff like thing, splashing the goose with water.

»

"Where do you go home to?" 

"What."

The goat bleats at the goose in impatience.

The goose ruffles its feathers like a stretch before settling back. "Dunno. I like this pond. It's quiet." There's a pause. "Well. It used to be."

"Tsk--Anyway, do you know if that bush over there is poison ivy? I need a proper brush for my coat and neither of us have hands so--"

"Go wild."

»

"We get our reports in a week," The goat reveals, hushed.

"Reports for what?"

"If we're good quality--we all get a mark."

The goose side-eyes her. "Okay. Why are you nervous? For all your positivity you doubt yourself?"

"TSK!" The sound of disdain is accompanied by a fast hoove on the water, creating a splash aimed at the goose. 

There's an overdramatic honk in response.

"I missed!" The goat points out.

"I know," The goose says, "It's tragically hilarious."

The goat makes its displeasure known. It's almost pitiful. If not endearing.

"Be good alright?" The goose asks.

»

Suddenly the goose isn't there anymore the next few nights.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> DUNDUNDUNDUNDDUNDAJAKFKLSØJFØKÆL???


	2. 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Guilt+Basic Decency=Michelle getting nice things she deserves.

**2001**

 

Guilt is a constant--that is, if you're a decent human being. It also has no business in his line of work. Harry likes to believe that at this point he's already a seasoned agent, and that he's moved on from the tragedy that was his proposed candidate.

Even Arthur himself is under the impression that it's all well and done and that Galahad has learned his lesson. If he can fool the man at the top, Harry Hart can fool himself.

Despite that, Harry's ignorant bliss ends when he sees Michelle Unwin in passing. She doesn't see him, of course. He takes the opportunity to use his skillset to hide in plain sight.

It has been about four years since he's seen her. She looks different--hair out of place, haggard and restless as she comes out from the store, and that's all it takes for the guilt to slam back in full force.

Michelle's only carrying a few handful of groceries, but she's checking her receipt worryingly as if the mere number of things she just bought was going to bankrupt her.

Harry Hart takes a pause. The dread finds its way in as he considers it.

 _Maybe it will_.

 

»

 

People often think that Merlin is all dry humour and heartless efficiency. Harry knows better.

He waits for the letter to arrive to the Unwin home and for its contents to be activated via telephone. Merlin notifies him when the call comes, letting him listen in.

" _...scam or somesort?_ " Michelle's voice crackles through the speakers in his office.

"No, Ma'am. Congratulations, you are indeed the one thousandth customer," Merlin announces good-naturedly, playing his role well, "Therefore in turn you shall receive a thousand pounds in form of cheque in your mail within a few days."

" _...And that's it?_ " Michelle questions sceptically. Smart woman, Harry thinks.

"Yes, there's also the issue of where you want to go for your holiday trip for two."

" _Holiday trip?_ "

"It's part of the promotional prize, Ma'am. Did you not read the letter? From Japan to the Alps, we've got the travel, accommodation, and food fees covered among other things. All you have to do is choose the date and location and we'll send you the details for your two week holiday," Merlin explains.

There's silence on the other line. Harry almost worries that she’s hung up already before a quiet shudder of breath comes through.

" _So what, all this for free?_ " She argues.

"Yes, Ma'am." Merlin does a good job in not letting the pity taint his tone.

" _If I wanted to go to the Caribbean with my son, is that a thing that could happen then?_ " Michelle cautions.

"Actually, if your son is a child under eleven he can go along for free, leaving the second ticket unused. You may still bring someone along the way, if you'd like."

Once more, it is quiet on the other end.

" _No, just me and my son._ "

Harry does not squirm in his seat, but it's a near enough thing.

Michelle Unwin still hasn't moved on.

"Alright Ma'am, just give me the details of when and where by the fifth of May with this very same number and..."

Four years and there hasn't been anyone? Surely not?

Harry thought he fell in love once. It wasn't that bad. But it also wasn't the kind people wrote sonnets about because in the end, he still chose Kingsman over them.

He thinks he always will.

It also didn't hurt like they said it would.

Whatever Michelle is going through, he can't possibly know. He doesn't think he wants to.  

 

 


	3. 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eggsy meets Mr. Hart  
> [Eggsy is 11]

**2003**

 

Eggsy is eleven when his mum pulls him out of gymnastics. It's a miracle it took this long to be honest. His mum's been trying so hard over the years--But now stretched thin as they are, they simply don't have the money for it.

They have moved at least six times in the last five years. London is expensive and they both know it, but they can't just stay away. From what he's heard from his mum, his dad loved the city almost as if it was in his blood. Eggsy thinks it's in his blood too, because it hurt every time they had to leave--and every time they've had to move, it was farther and farther away from the centre of London.

Once, they got as far as Zone 5 when she lost her third part-time job. Thankfully, his mum managed to hunt down a deal and play the waiting game to get a flat they could afford, so now they're back on Zone 3. This way the tube fare's cheaper when they have the chance to go to the centre of London and back. Every quid counts.

Sometimes, all Eggsy wants to do is throw a tantrum despite his understanding--'cos he gets it, really, he does--but he can't upset his mum. She's already got a lot on her plate.

The best he can do is lash out where she won't see it. Those nasty boys from school who keeps teasing him about not having a dad are at the very top of his list. He's managed to hold back so far, using smart quips instead of violence if ever. One of the main things that stopped him was injuries getting in the way of gymnastics.

That ain't gonna be an issue now, will it?

The chance comes during a school trip to the Imperial War Museum. All things considered, Eggsy is genuinely excited for it. The admission fees may be free, but the transportation costs ain't. It's not like they can just take the whole of Year 6 and usher them all in the tube. There's also the issue of snacks and lunches. Normally the school doesn't have the funding to get this many kids to a trip on this scale, even if every student and their family pitched in--which, even if they were asked to, they wouldn't.

Apparently, some posh bloke had too much money than he knew what to do with and decided to sponsor their shitty school. Hurrah for small miracles.

On principle, Eggsy always tries to hate things he and his mum can't afford. It's just better that way. It stops the wanting. Whether it's new trainers, toys, or even more food.

But this--this is something else. He and his mum didn't even have to pay!

"Lookin' a bit too excited there, Unwin," Dennis points out. A few of their classmates titter around him. Eggsy loses the smile, but it doesn't stop the oncoming comments.

"Ya haven't been to this shite of a place?" Blake remarks, "This is like one of the first places parents take their kids to see when they get bored outta their minds. Next to the bloody park."

Dennis scoffs as Perry joins in, eager, "Yeah, yeah. I remember. My mum took me to a string of galleries and museums--the free and the cheap ones at least. That was so boring. A waste of time."

"Well, I haven't. So shut your mouths," Eggsy says through gritted teeth. Occasionally, when things are tense, whether it's from cold rage, fear, or nervousness, there's only one of two ways it can really go with Eggsy. The way he speaks heavily changes, for better or for worse; too informal and careless or too rigid and proper. Sometimes it's the only way he knows what he's feeling and what he's about to do next before he even consciously decides.

With a hand feeling for the medal through his shirt, he looks for their teacher as subtly as he can. She's not there. Probably up all the way in the front, settling their tour.

And of course, Dennis can't leave it alone, the bloody wanker. "Well of course he hasn't, Blake. His Da's gone and his Ma's too piss poor to even pay for the bloody tube," Dennis remarks, gaining another round of laughter. It's the kind that seeps under the skin, grating and shrill, scratching at the remaining threads of self-control.

The dam breaks within Eggsy, and next thing he knows is that he's jumping on them, all his resentment in life concentrated into his fists flying left and right. The anger burns higher and higher and he ain't planning on stopping until they cry underneath him. He's sick of em', he's sick of their sneers and their taunts, he's sick of being piss poor and he's sick of not getting his mum all the good things that she deserves. Because despite it all, she's still going and she's still hard-working than the rest of the people he's ever known and she deserves the best. He ain't gonna take shit about his mum as long as he lives.

The struggle seems to take forever, pained grunts and desperate yelling gaining all kinds of attention from people around them. Of course, they get a few hits and kicks at Eggsy--they do outnumber him. But Eggsy thinks, with more practice, he can take a whole lot of 'em alone.

Security guards notice the commotion and pull them apart.

Eggsy and the boys end up in a holding room. From his side of the table, he can tell he's done more damage on them than they did on him. Not bad for one versus three.

The pain on his cheek pulses in reminder of the situation.

Their teacher, abashed, leaves them there with the guards outside and continues on with the class and their tour. She promises to call their parents later with an admonishing look. And damn, why didn't that even cross his mind? He's in deep shite, he is.

The boys glare at Eggsy.

"What?" Eggsy starts.

"Lookit what you've done," Blake accuses. "They're startin' without us."

"I thought you said you've been here before," Eggsy retorts.

"That ain't what I said," Blake complains. Perry sits silent, looking like he's trying not to cry again. Dennis fumes quietly at him.

"What, you've got somethin' to say, Den?" Eggsy goads.

"I don't care what ya do with your shitty life but ya don't have to bring us down with ya, ya bastard!" He lunges from across the table.

The guards burst in and they all freeze.

"What did I tell you?" Guard Number One says to his partner.

Number Two rolls his eyes before pointing at Eggsy's schoolmates, "Alright boys, you three come with me."

Eggsy's heart thuds at the thought. What were they gonna do to him alone? Shit.

_Shitshitshit._

"Try not to cause any more trouble, kid," The guard says as he moves to close the door. Eggsy ignores the fear and gives him the finger with a confidence he doesn't really feel.

He sees the shock on the guard’s face before he turns back to stare mulishly at the wall, pushing down the sheer panic he feels in the pit of his stomach.

There is only the sound of the door closing. He doesn't realise someone else is in the room until they speak.

"Now, now. That was quite rude of you."

Eggsy forgets his front for a second, whipping his head around, bewildered at the posh chiding tone.

The man has a posh suit to match--not the kind you'd just buy at a department store like his teachers do for formal events and shit, a bit too loose here and there and tight in some others. He'd always roll his eyes at them, thinking they were trying too hard-- He also has a simple black umbrella with the hook handle draped over his arm.

_What a ponce._

Remembering himself, Eggsy raises his chin a fraction and looks the bastard in the eyes. "What's it to ya?"

If the man is affronted, he doesn't show it. In fact, it looks more like he can't decide between a frown or a smile. Which is just--new for Eggsy.

"What is your name, young man?" He asks instead, unhooking the umbrella on his arm and putting the tip against the floor. With both hands, he grasps the handle, almost for support.

Eggsy raises an insolent eyebrow. "Again, what's it to ya?"

"My name is Harry," The man says, moving the umbrella to the side and taking a cautious step forward. It's almost as if he's trying not to spook him. "Harry Hart."

There's a moment of silence which Eggsy breaks with a slight uncharacteristic hesitation. It's the man's fault, really--Harry's fault. He's looking at Eggsy like--

"Is that supposed to mean somethin' to me, Mr. Hart?" He blurts.

The man somehow looks more at ease at the words. "No, I suppose not."

Eggsy sniffs and looks around, intending to look bored. It's a tactic he's learned over the years. They'll fill the silence eventually.

"I was informed they will be calling your mother."

Mood soured, Eggsy scowls and fully turns back to the wall.

The thing is, his mum usually works over-time. If she isn't doing that, she catches up on well-needed sleep. The best he can hope for is to get home before she ever does and pick up the call just to drop it. Because Eggsy Unwin may be brilliant and talented in all kinds of things, but it ain't like he can convincingly fake being his own mum, can he? He'll stay up and stare at the bloody telephone if he has to.

"Would you at least like to go on with the tour?" The man's offer cuts through his thoughts. The hell does this geezer want?

Eggsy blinks. "Guv--Mister, can't you see I'm being punished here?"

"Yes," He sounds almost amused. "However, staying here would be a waste of time. Wouldn't you agree?"

Turning to face him, Eggsy squints. "There are guards outside."

"Are there?" Mr. Hart asks mildly, a mischievous twinkling in his eyes.

 

\--»

 

That is how they find themselves on a separate tour around the museum. Old planes hang from somewhere somehow, the kind you only see on war films and documentaries, black and white. There's even tanks and--

"Shit, is that a rocketship?" The boy exclaims.

"Language, Eggsy," Harry drawls, barely glancing at the amused and scandalised adults alike. "And no, that's a missile."

"A missile?" The boy crows, not even realising the use of a name he hasn't given out yet.

"A V-2 in particular," He absently comments.

Harry has just got back from a mission thirteen hours ago. Despite it ultimately going to shit near the end, it went rather well considering it was a solo mission for its calibre of an assignment. He got the intel he needed along with a hastily treated bullet graze and multiple bruises in varying stages all over his body.

He doesn't really know what he is doing here of all places, instead of recuperating.

"A V-2," Eggsy parrots and continues on to nod like he knows what that means.

Harry tries not to be charmed.

For late lunch, the boy shrugs and remains tight-lipped about what he wants to eat. It is only when Harry threatens to buy everything on the menu, partly joking, does he start talking. Eggsy practically inhales the sourdough pizza, alternating his bites with a hearty burger. He even manages to have room for a lemon pudding.

Harry tries not to gawk and opts for sipping his tea. He's a bloody agent for fuck's sake, he can keep his composure. He takes the opportunity to ask the servers for a small bag of ice. Bruises are already starting to show and he's noticed the boy putting a hand on his own chest, on and off throughout the day. Did he get hit in the sternum? What kind of playground scuffle did he partake in?

Harry resists the urge to send him to the hospital for a check-up.

They end up passing by at the gift shop afterwards. Harry catches a glimpse of something through the glass windows. Later on, he’ll suspect that is the only reason Eggsy ever gets coaxed into entering the store, because he ends up following Harry. Harry, who's having a bit of trouble keeping his composure at the '[Spy Glasses](http://i.imgur.com/WAFeZJC.jpg)' product.

Unbelievable. What are the chances?

He swears to tell Merlin the next time he comes in to HQ. The man will either have a good laugh or sneer and mutter something about unoriginality.

Stifling a smile, he turns to see Eggsy giving him an odd look. Harry clears his throat, motioning to the thing. "It's... _cool_."

Harry almost bites off his own tongue. It is truly fortunate that his glasses are off. Merlin would never have let that one go. He can see the amused quirk on the boy's mouth however, so it's not completely a lost cause.

For some reason Eggsy doesn't seem too interested at anything in the store, eyes flitting around too quick, body angling for the exit. It's rather unnatural for a young boy. Don't children like toys?

Harry leaves with almost something like disappointment. He glances at his watch. They have approximately twenty minutes before he has to return the boy to the holding room. Frowning, he turns back to see Eggsy falling behind, eyes lingering on a jacket.

Before Harry can even smile and make the offer, the boy purses his lips with what looks like determination and turns away.

 

 _Oh_.

 

Harry immediately fixes his eyes on something afar, pretending not to have seen.

Eggsy catches up with him quietly, swishing the ice and melted water in the sandwich bag.

"We have fifteen minutes left. Is there anywhere else you wish to go?"

The boy appears to genuinely think about it, but he shakes his head. "Nah."

In the holding room, Eggsy settles back in, as if he has been in there for the full three hours he should have been. There's a tension to him, more obvious than before. It's in his posture, his spine, the line of his small shoulders.

Harry picks up the bag of ice from the table and slowly presses it against the boy's cheek and temple. "Just remember to keep the ice on. Twenty minutes on, twenty minutes off and so on should do. To keep down the swelling."

"What are you, a doctor?" Eggsy snorts, but there's a nervous edge to it. Harry doesn't miss the slight dialect change.

Saying no to that question would not technically be a lie, but he chooses not to answer anyway and motions for him to hold the bag. Eggsy does, partly covering the back of Harry's hand with his small fingers.

"I hope you had enjoyed yourself, young man." He eases his hand from underneath so gently that the boy doesn't even wince.

Harry makes for the door, already starting to go through what he's going to do for the rest of the day. Merlin will already be suspicious, considering he's been out and about and hasn't been wearing his glasses since he got a few streets away from the tailor shop. It's in his inner coat pocket, powered off, conditioned to turn on in an emergency. That doesn't mean Merlin can't hack into it, however.

"Oi! Mr. Hart."

Harry turns, trying not to comment on the 'Mr.' part. The boy's been calling him that all day despite Harry giving him the option to use his first name. 

"You really just gonna leave?"

Harry frowns, rather confused. He mentally checks if he's forgotten anything. "Yes, my dear boy. Unfortunately, the day must go on," He quips, leaning on his umbrella. It's not that he's old. Seventy-two hours of no proper sleep, jet lags, and his active dangerous lifestyle put to the test in the Chechen slums has simply taken its toll. So he gives the boy a tired smile and moves for the door once more.

"Wait!"

Harry halts, and his mind supplies a dreadful explanation. _Has the boy become attached?_

"Me mum did teach me manners, you know," He goes on, unaware of Harry's plight.

That prompts an eyebrow raise. "Did she, now?"

“Yeah, yeah,” Eggsy stands, looking like he’s trying not to scowl, abandoning the bag of ice on the table. "I know it might not seem like it. But maybe I only use it for the good 'uns."

He reaches out with a hand and Harry uncharacteristically stares at it for a second before walking closer to take it.

"The name's Gary Unwin." The boy shakes his hand from side to side rather vigorously. Harry makes an effort not to smile too much and subtly corrects him to a proper handshake. "But call me Eggsy."

"Eggsy," Harry says as if he's trying it out for the first time and gives in to smiling warmly, lightly squeezing his hand. "Pleased to make your acquaintance, Eggsy."

Eggsy nods, letting go and walking backwards to his seat.

"Thanks, Mr. Hart. I had a great time, I did," He admits, biting the inside of his cheek as he puts the ice back on.

"Good. That's all that matters." Harry opens the door, but he can't quite resist. "Though, do _try_ not to get in trouble, Eggsy."

He gets an insolent scowl and a finger in turn. Harry feels his own laughter echoing through the hall and the closed door.

 

\--

 

Eggsy doesn't know what he's done to deserve that. Swear down.

He's been waiting for the other shoe to drop since the beginning. Eggsy Unwin ain't an idiot. The first thing that should cross anyone's mind when a stranger offers good things happening to a kid is that the man's a bloody paedophile--but that didn't come up either.

Eggsy Unwin ain't an idiot, but he's really good at pretending. Playing dumb and oblivious until the end, waiting for him to make a move so he could deck him in the bollocks if he needed to and then his posh face.

But even then, the man didn't really ask for anything back.

That was new. That was different. That was something.

 

 


	4. 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eggsy's Birthday: 2003  
> Take note: There's no post on Sundays.  
> [Eggsy is turning 12]

**2003-II**

 

Early morning on Eggsy's birthday, there's a knock on the door. It repeats, firm and persistent.

His mum's doing overtime, even on his birthday, yeah, ‘cos needs must and all that. She did promise to stop by for some pancakes though, the fancy ones from that one café. So unless she forgot her keys--which she _doesn't_ \-- the person on the other side of that door ain't his mum.

He's quiet when he walks out of his room and straight into the living area. Eggsy's not taking any chances. He catches sight of his mum's hairbrush left on the wonky secondhand table and grabs hold of it, clutching it tight.

They have a peephole on their door but he can't reach it. Pulling up a chair to use will make a noise, so that's a no. Glancing down, he double-checks that the pointy side of the brush is in the right direction. He turns the doorknob ever so slowly, leaving the door chain intact, and peeks through.

It's a postman, complete with the uniform--[shorts](http://imgur.com/bdi9UMw) though, really?--and all with a cap under the hood. He’s carrying a parcel. The box is definitely not on the small side, so if it was ever left outside their door, he really wouldn't be surprised if someone stole it. But they must have gotten the wrong flat because seriously--

Quietly, he opens the door a little wider, straining the door chain. The man shifts, distracted, eyes flitting about his surroundings behind his glasses, almost nervous-like. Eggsy can't blame him really, it's a dangerous neighbourhood.

The door makes a stupid creaking noise and the man's eyes meets his through the crack, mouth parting and closing to a frown.

"Gary Unwin here?" He asks, voice odd. At a closer look, the man's actually bald beneath his cap. Like, really really bald. The clean-shiny type, the probably-reflects-light-and-can-blind-someone type if he's near enough a really bright light. It wouldn't be much of a difficulty with how tall he is.

But something isn't right--Not the bald thing, no. The whole thing. It doesn't look right. It doesn't feel right.

Or maybe it's just the shorts. Either way, people can't ever be too careful these days and he ain't taking the risk.

"What's it to ya?" Eggsy replies, challenging.

The man's eyebrows go up, and at the same time Eggsy can practically see him biting his tongue at such cheekiness. On second thought, it's more like he's trying not to smile. And you know what, why wouldn't he? It's the Unwin charm, his mum would say.

It's only when the postman rolls his eyes and gestures to the parcel in hand that Eggsy decides and reaches for the door chain. Those susceptible to the Unwin charm can't be _that_ bad. Eggsy thinks back to a man he met a few months ago.

He feels a little silly. So what if the postman's wearing the shorts instead of trousers? Eggsy really shouldn't judge--But then what self-respecting man as tall as he is would wear them shorts that stop at his knees? Eggsy knows for a fact that postmen get trousers for basic uniform wear. But maybe it's laundry day, who knows.

He needs to work on the not-judging thing.

Eggsy finally gets the door open.

"Tha's me," Eggsy announces, head held high, daring to be rejected. "Gary Unwin."

The postman only gives him a dry look before handing him a clipboard to sign. He doesn't know why, it ain't like Eggsy's an adult. But he rolls with it, trying not to let his surprise and confusion show. Eggsy can do adult things. Or at least pretend to. He's been winging it well so far. Most of the time.

After scribbling his name, forgetting how to do cursive, scratching it out and trying again, he's still not satisfied with it. So of course, he tries again. And again. And a--

The man snatches the clipboard from him and places the parcel in its stead. Eggsy manages not to buckle under the weight, because that's just embarrassing.

"Well then," Eggsy tries, shifting on his feet.

The man gives him a knowing look, his piqued expression fading. It looks almost fond and maybe sad but that wouldn't make sense.

The postman gives him a polite smile. "Goodbye."

And then he's gone.

The packaged is addressed to Gary 'Eggsy' Unwin.

Beneath the filler sheets of crinkly paper is the [jacket](http://i.imgur.com/KOMC4Xa.jpg) he saw all those months ago, folded neatly and bearing patches of flags and other military stuff he wants to know about. The only reason he doesn't rip it out from the box and put it on is because he's not sure if it's real. It doesn't make sense. So he takes it slow, feeling like one of those people in them war movies when they're trying to defuse a bomb or something.

Running his hand through it, he feels something underneath. Which makes sense--it ain't a small box after all.

He carefully pulls it out only to realise that whatever else is in the package is stowed _inside_ the jacket. It's full and bulky. At the bottom of the box he only sees a letter, all prim and fancy and official looking.

Eggsy doesn't really care for it right now. He pushes the box aside with his foot and concentrates on placing the jacket on the floor in front of him, unfolding it. Zipping the jacket down, he sees a shirt and pulls it out, stretching it across his own torso before finding a tag of some sort.

' _IWM Spy T-_ _[shirt](http://i.imgur.com/aRR65jk.jpg)'_  it reads.

Huh. So he was right. Imperial War Museum stuff.

Going back, he finds an upturned Captain's [cap](http://i.imgur.com/pwEkfbs.jpg). Directly inside it is a [metal](http://i.imgur.com/zdUeKtW.jpg) compass, two [gold](http://i.imgur.com/jPWRAhQ.jpg) [aeroplane](http://i.imgur.com/cVLyzEx.jpg) lapel pins (whatever that is), and something that's marketing itself as [spy glasses](http://i.imgur.com/WAFeZJC.jpg). At the sight of it, Eggsy's heart beats a little faster. Under the cap are two books on survival--one looking like it's for [kids](http://i.imgur.com/eovObeD.jpg), the other...it's in association with the Royal [Marine](http://i.imgur.com/608YfZy.jpg) Commandos, _Jesus,_ Eggsy might start going to church if there really are things like miracles--and under that is a Morse Code [Kit](http://i.imgur.com/YanaN3F.jpg).

Eggsy is so overwhelmed by everything that it takes him a while to get a move on. He ain't a wimp and he don't cry all willy nilly for nothing. But he feels the tears welling up and he feels so stupid for it but at least they don't fall, alright? He takes a breath and powers through.

On the side, shoved near the armhole of the flight jacket is a plush [toy](http://i.imgur.com/dYRLbDS.jpg) of a dog. Eggsy doesn't know whether or not he should be offended 'cos he's turning twelve, not six. Across from the dog is a [bear](http://i.imgur.com/u3DSaqi.jpg) with a funny little costume on. For hell's sake--Why is he grinning like he's bloody chuffed to bits?

He notices a layer of camo pattern he thought earlier to be the inner fabric of the flight jacket itself. Pulling it up, he realises it's a separate [jacket](http://i.imgur.com/a9yzDTU.jpg) completely as he turns it around. It has its own pockets and even a rank insignia on the front.

Fucking hell.

The letter itself is sharp and clean.

 

' _Congratulations on your birthday, Mr. Unwin. During your school trip to the IWM, your name was automatically entered in a raffle to which you have won. Enjoy your gifts and use them wisely._ '

 

Oh.

So this wasn't from _him_ then?

Mr. Hart?

Well, why would it be? Of course it isn't. He was probably the bastard's charity case of the day, that's all.

Why would he be disappointed? He ain't disappointed.

 

»

 

The moment his mum comes home, Eggsy is already pretending to still be asleep. It ain't hard to do considering the whole thing is getting frustrating to think about. The box and everything in it is covered under layers upon layers of clothes in the bottom drawer of his wardrobe.

Which is just as well, because he hears the door to his own room creak slowly open with the sound of shifting plastic bag.

There are hands on his head, petting softly and he almost feels like falling asleep for real this time. Too bad he's being shaken lightly awake and he has to play along.

"Happy birthday, luv," His mum whispers. Her voice is tired, but nevertheless genuine. Eggsy feels a swell of emotions; he is so proud and so lucky to have someone so hardworking and someone so loving as a mother. He wouldn't have it any other way.

Fuck whatever them idiots at school say.

She brandishes a fancy plastic bag in front of his face to motivate him.

"Pancakes fresh from the shop, hun. Get up," She coaxes.

During breakfast he asks her about work and he notices the strain in her smile when she says it's fine. Eggsy's stomach churns and it ain't the pancakes. 'Cos the pancakes are great. And really expensive just for being great pancakes from a fancy pastry shop café--Well, okay, so maybe it was part pancakes. He knows it's his birthday, so this is a one time thing, but he still can't help feeling guilty about it. He wishes he was just a bit older. He can quit school, start working, and help out.

His mum suddenly perks up, almost sending the cutlery to the floor in her excitement.

"Mum?"

"Before I forget, Eggsy, luv," She reaches for her bag. "I won something."

"Won something? Are you gamblin' woman now, mum?" He asks, half-joking. He watches as she fishes is out what looks to be a box covered in a plastic from the depths of her bag. How did that even fit in there?

"No, silly." She places it on the table with a proud smile. "It was some sweepstakes thing at work. Harmless stuff."

"Well, that's good then." Eggsy nods approvingly. Life ain't that bad after all. He thinks of the box hidden in his room.

"Go on." She nudges the box at him.

"What?" He stares incredulously at her. "Mum, it's yours! You won it!"

"I won a pair. That's the other half of it," She explains, grinning.

"What is this, a shoe?" He laughs, taking the box out of the plastic.

He stops laughing.

Eyes wide he looks up at her for confirmation. "Mum?"

She just keeps nodding at him. "I know I technically didn't buy it but--Happy Birthday, Eggsy."

He looks down at the box. [_Nokia 1100_](http://www.gsmarena.com/nokia_1100-512.php), it reads. A mobile phone. A bloody mobile phone! Only his mum!

"You're amazin', mum. Absolutely aces! Thanks!" He gets up from his seat and kisses her on the cheek. She wraps him in a tight hug.

"It's not so bad, is it, luv? We can get by, can't we?"

"Of course we can!" He hugs her back just as tight, trying not to cry. "We're Unwins, we are! We can make it."

Before she goes to bed, he tells her of the box from the Imperial War Museum. Because really, she's gonna find out about it sooner or later. She's stunned at first, but he shows her the letter for explanation. Eggsy plays along, even though he ain't half shit sure about 'raffles'.

This is the best fuckin' birthday of his life.

 

 


	5. 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The last months of 2003.  
> Harry has to clean up his mess. Eggsy gets hungry. Their path crosses at Tesco.  
> [Eggsy is 12]

**2003-III**

 

Harry Hart is dumping a body in pieces in broad daylight.

This is what it's come to. This is what happens when Lancelot is let loose on a mission in England. Alone.

The local clean-up crew becomes too busy and Harry is left to take care of his own mess. Admittedly, he shouldn't have been making that much mess in the first place, but at least it's just one body.

It's not an easy task to begin with, especially as he nears the edges towards London. It's not just the bustling crowds, tourists and natives alike, no; London is one of the most surveilled cities in the world, CCTVs everywhere you go, especially after that 9/11 incident with the Americans.

Harry's been stopping by alleys, lakes and ponds and parks all day with the help of the company cab, disposing a piece here and there and going about his business, smiling politely at passersby.

"Galahad," Merlin comes in through his earpiece, tone flat.

He hums, half encouragement and half in question.

"You are one sick bastard."

"What would you have had me do?" He implores innocently.

"Oh, I don't know, put him in a bin somewhere? Whole?"

"Maybe you should consider finding one yourself, you sound a tad bit green."

"Don't remind me. If any of my prototypes short-circuit--"

"It's your vomit, Merlin, not mine," He reminds him pleasantly. "Plus, I am of the opinion that Scotland Yard's competence has been lacking as of late. This might be a good exercise for them."

"For fuck's sake," Merlin mutters, but Harry can tell he's won him over somehow. It might have something to do with the speeding fine he was slapped with a few months ago. Merlin can hold a grudge like no one else; and while he did hack into the system, erasing any trace of the event while the issue of the physical paper trail was settled personally by Harry, it's really the principle of the thing.

Harry feels himself giving a small smile as he enjoys the brief period of sun, strolling back to where the cab is parked. It's not going to last, no doubt about it. It is England after all.

"Do me a favour, would you? Clean the cab before you bring it back to HQ."

Harry manages to refrain from making an indignant noise. "In the off-chance that I did besmirch it, do we not have people employed for that particular task?"

"It's your mess after all, Galahad," He repeats his own words back at him, "An unnecessary mess at that. I'm rather certain I saw a speck of blood on the leather seats," Merlin adds, almost haughty in that ' _I'm a professional, really_ ' tone he uses to cover up insults and complaints.

Harry Hart is a dignified man. Thus, he does not grumble when he asks the driver to stop by Tesco for some cleaning supplies.

 

\--

 

This academic year, Eggsy attends a new school. Not because of the fight, no. The school he used to be in didn't offer a Year 7. He simply had to move on.

It was a difficult compromise, what with every other school near his flat being a catholic school, a girl's-only, or just ones with hefty tuition fees. He and his mum also had to take into account the uniform costs along with tube fares and the like.

Surprisingly enough, Eggsy got accepted into Whitefield. But then again, despite that mess he got into at the museum, he did manage to keep his academics slightly above average. His mum works hard and one thing she doesn't wanna compromise on is education.

They can get by now without much overtime and the need for another part-time job, but he can't play dumb at the fact that she's saving up for his tuition in the future. She's got this weird dream of him getting through uni, apparently. He can't really say anything but do his best at school even though he thinks it's never gonna happen.

The thing is, as much as he can, Eggsy tries to save money too. Even if that means walking for up to two hours instead of using the Oyster card or the cash he's supposed to spend if it ran out. It's a secret, of course. His mum would twist his ear off if she ever found out.

And when you're walking for a certain amount of time after spending your day trying to stay awake in school, you get hungry. Eggsy's a growing boy. A growing boy who didn't really have much of a proper breakfast today. Who has proper breakfast nowadays, really?

Eggsy fiddles with his Captain's cap. Yeah, he's wearing it. He has been wearing it. The moment school ends for the day and he starts his long journey home, he pulls it out of his bag and puts it on his head. It's part of his routine now. It's after school, he can wear whatever he wants, alright? No one's gotta know.

Besides, he looks cool. He thinks it's gonna be a thing, wearing them hats.

When he nears a Tesco Superstore, his feet leads him towards it, treacherous things they are.

Maybe, just maybe, if he looks sad and adorable enough, someone might take pity on him and feed him. He sure as hell hates pity but if he can use it to his advantage, why not?

After a few minutes of loitering around near the entrance with no luck, he really should leave. But he's here already, dammit.

Eggsy goes in, having a vague idea of how it will all end. The cheapest bag of crisps he can find that he even remotely wants is a quid fifty. Of course, he could settle for the Pringles being a quid and twenty-four pence. But still, that's like half his tube fare. What's the point of suffering a long exhausting trek and still have half of his savings gone anyway?

He can feel himself get irritable and frustrated again. Eggsy tries to tamp it down, but he just takes a can of Pringles.

And _runs_ with it.

 

\--

 

Harry is having his supplies rung up on the checkout counter when the emergency alarm blares from somewhere in the store. He is immediately alert, but the raging noise stops just as sudden.

He sends his cashier a questioning glance, but she merely shrugs.

On his way across the car park with his purchases, a movement catches his attention from the corner of his eye. It looks to be a child running at top speed.

He notices a bunch of security gathering together near the entrance of the store before they separate, intending to chase.

It is a highly amusing thought that it takes three guards to pursue a child of all people.

But the boy’s speed is truly impressive, already passing the square and onto the next one. At the corner of Harry’s mind is recruitment but he shuts down the ridiculous thought. Instead, he focuses on the task at hand and takes out a wet tissue wipe as a preliminary precaution. There's no point of doing a full cleanup if it isn't dirty after all, Merlin be damned.

Unfortunately, the wipe comes up with a slight tinge of red from the seats. Or was it from his gloves?

Either way, Harry should have taken his glasses off because that's just more ammunition for Merlin. "Well, well, Galahad."

"Quiet."

He frowns, and gives in the odd urge to look at the chase. The guards are at the edge of the car park, seemingly at an impasse. The child is already far, far away. There's really no point.

Harry squints into the distance and focuses on something familiar.

 _Bugger_.

"Merlin."

"Yes?" The reply comes, alert.

"Eggs-- _calibur_ ," Harry utters lowly, correcting himself. Arthur has the authority to scan and look over anything including feeds, audio and visual. He can absolutely _not_ know about his involvement with the Unwins. No one can. Harry can only hope the meaning goes through without much need of explanation.

There is complete silence on the other end before the full force of Scottish brogue comes through, "Are ye fuckin' serious righ' nae?"

"Merlin."

"Jesus," There are sounds of harsh multiple keyboard tapping in the background, and a moment later, Harry thinks he can hear a groan of Merlin just being absolutely _done,_ "What are the chances, really?"

There may or may not have been a GPS tracker in both the mobiles the Unwins won from a sweepstakes. For emergency reasons, of course. Harry Hart may be an international spy, but he is also a gentleman first and foremost. He knows the importance of privacy as a basic human decency, among other things.

"I'm going to need an actual confirmation, Merlin."

"It is."

Harry takes out his tablet from the seat pocket in front of him.

"Send me live data, please and thank you." He removes his glasses, "Hector? Do whatever errands you have to for the next hour or so. I'll call should I need you."

He gets out of the cab, closing the door behind him.

 

\--

 

Eggsy is running like hell. His lungs feel like they're gonna explode but the thrill almost makes up for it. The blood in his veins is hot and cold as it races through his body, singing with energy and sparks. The rush almost makes up for it. Almost.

Because there's also the fear and the pain and he doesn't know what to do. So he keeps running and running until his legs start to give up on him. He almost trips face-first when he swerves right to hide in an alley.

God, that was stupid as hell. He's been good so far--with school, playing nice, and academics--but then things like _this_ happen out of nowhere. Why does he ruin everything? Last time he checked, security was after him. And there was a lot of them.

All the thoughts of what could happen when they finally catch up hit Eggsy at once. He grips at the medal through his uniform.

Shit. This is so much worse than some school fight. Jesus, he's probably gonna get arrested for a quid twenty-four worth of a can of Pringles. He can't do that to his mum.

Trying to catch his breath in a trashy alley that smells like piss doesn't really help at all.

 _Shit_. The shame burns as much as the raging fire in his lungs. He only had one job and that was to do well and make his mum proud. His mum who has two jobs and is planning on getting a third one, already thinking of uni.

For hell's sake, he's never gonna get to uni if he's arrested.

He can't do this. They're gonna catch up to him sooner or later and he's gonna have to make a decision quick. Eggsy's gonna have to leave. He's gonna have to disappear. He's gonna have to sneak into a bus to Scotland or Wales and then a bloody ferry to Northern Ireland.

They can't get him. He can't do that to his mum.

A sob breaks out from nowhere and he hastily wipes the tears running down his cheeks. Dropping the can of Pringles on the ground, he grabs his rucksack and searches for his mobile with bleary eyes and shaky hands as the adrenaline crashes down.

He has to say goodbye.

A shadow looms over him and Eggsy flinches, almost throwing the Nokia in defence. He can't see him clearly at first, only the silhouette and arms held high, non-threatening.

Blinking a few times, his vision finally clears.

"Mr. Hart!" Eggsy jumps and clings to his leg, feeling the man tense. He doesn't believe in angels but he might just be convinced otherwise.

This man is a godsend.

 

\--

 

There are a million things going through Harry's head at the moment: _He remembers my name? What? Why is he clinging to my leg? Why am I here?_

He makes an aborted move to reach for him because he has enough remaining sense to pull back and take his leather gloves off. Coloured black, like his suit, it is difficult to tell that it’s partially tainted with the blood of a notorious human trafficker's second in command.

Harry gently puts a bare hand on the boy's arm, urging him to let go.

"Eggsy."

The boy sniffles and looks up from under his hat. "Ya remember me?"

Harry does not squirm at the attention and finds a clean handkerchief instead, offering it to him.

"What have you done? Tell me."

Eggsy gets up and starts to grumble, accent and dialect thick. Harry manages to coax him out of the rancid alley with all his belongings. The boy peeks over Harry from side to side, checking as if he's brought the whole army behind him.

Walking down on the side of the road, he calms down enough to tell his story, including his half-baked plans of a grand escape. It takes Harry's all not to laugh. They must be an odd sight. A suited man and a dejected schoolboy in his uniform with a mismatching hat.

On second thought, maybe not. They could easily be mistaken as father and son, Harry thinks with distaste.

"You are aware that stealing is bad, correct?" Harry tuts.

"I dun' expect ya to understand, Mr. Hart, I doubt ya ever felt starved before." Eggsy scowls, his hold on Harry's sleeve gripping tight even as he looks away. Harry stares blankly at the point of shy contact while his mind wanders back to the missions where he'd been tortured and left to die, the possibility of rescue diminishing as the proverbial clock went on.

"Mr. Hart," Eggsy starts, strained. It pulls Harry back to the situation at hand. "What are we doing here?"

The Tesco Superstore looms over them, almost ominous--to the boy at least, who he senses goes rigid beside him. An accusing stare follows in Harry’s direction.

Harry clasps a hand on Eggsy's shoulder, reassuring.

"It will be worth it, I promise."

 

\--

 

"I believe this young man has something to say," Mr. Hart says to the group of security lounging about near the entrance.

Eggsy does his best not to grimace. He's doing a very risky thing here. He could be arrested for hell's sake, why did he let Mr. Hart talk him into this again? It doesn't help that he's holding his hat hostage. He kinda feels naked without it.

"Oh?" One of the security guards crosses their arms, expectant. It riles him up.

 _Polite and sorry_ , Mr. Hart had said. _Polite and sorry_.

Eggsy dials up the Unwin charm, looking like the very sorry sod he is as he holds up the can of Pringles he stole and a fiver in the other hand.

"Look, officers, I was really hungry and I didn't have me head on straight. M’sorry," He blurts, shyly looking at each and every one of them through his lashes. Eggsy sniffles for good measure.

There's a moment where the guards trade eye contact before obviously breaking down.

 _Bingo_.

Eggsy feels a surge of elation. This must be what _power_ feels like.

"Well, alright. Come on, son. We'll show you how the self-service check out works," One of them says.

They all follow and watch as he makes his first independent purchase. They take him through it, from the beginning until the receipt comes out of the machine. While his smile is genuine, Eggsy does end up hamming it up a bit. "Thank you, officers!"

They can't help but smile back, looking proud. It don't stop the well-intended lectures though. "Now don't pull that sort of nonsense again, you hear?" The guard starts, prompting some more advice from his colleagues. Jesus.

Eggsy just nods, appearing properly chastised, making the right interested noises. Of course he ain't trying that shit again. Duh.

In actuality, he searches for Mr. Hart, who's been very quiet throughout. He finds him standing a bit further away, watching. The man nods, the corner of his mouth twitching.

Eggsy tries not to preen. Tries.

\--

Belatedly, he notices a guard looking back and forth between them as the boy makes his way back to him.

"Do you know who that man is?" She asks the boy, hushed, trying to be subtle. Harry is a trained professional, so the way he stiffens isn't quite obvious the civilian eye.

What card could he possibly play against that?

\--

"Of course I do," Eggsy exclaims, almost incredulous. She probably got to the same conclusion he did when he first met Mr. Hart. What is it about well-suited posh blokes being low-key accused of paedophilia? Eggsy appreciates the concern, really, but he can handle himself--he's twelve okay, give him some credit--and Mr. Hart is a good man, and Eggsy ain't tolerating _shit_.

There’s an urge to throw a tantrum just to show her how _wrong_ she is, but he tamps it down.

Instead, Eggsy scurries to Mr. Hart, looking like a good boy, well-sorry about everything, and purposely loud when he says, "You won't tell mum when we get home, will you, Mr. Hart?"

He hopes he gets the hint.

 

\--

 

The boy tugs on his sleeve. Clever, _wretched_ thing. Who knew?

"We'll see about that," Harry quips, playing his part well. What part that is, he doesn't quite know. A teacher? A neighbour? A friend of the family?

Eggsy pouts in reply. Wretched thing.

They manage to leave the store unscathed, with polite goodbyes and smiles.

"Well, what did you learn?"

"I obviously ain't doin' that again. What more d'ya want me to say?"

Harry sighs, glancing away from the small hand clinging to his. "Let us go eat. What do you have in mind?"

"Wot? But you just bought me Pringles. And oh," The boy reaches in his pockets, "Here's your change."

"Keep it."

"Oi, I'm not a charity case."

"No, I simply do not like carrying loose change on my person," He rationalises. Harry feels the boy give him an odd stare but pays it no mind. "Makes these noises, you know. Every step I take. Dreadfully grating."

"Weirdly 'nuff, I believe ya. You _would_ have some perposeterous thin' like that," says the boy who intended to run away to Scotland and Northern Ireland because he stole a can of Pringles from Tesco.

" _Pre_ posterous," He corrects instead, placing the Captain's cap back on the boy's head.

After a ten minute walk, of course he ends up being led to a _McDonald's_ of all places. He can't even complain with the glare sent his way daring him to say a word.

Harry clears his throat. "Ah, you know. It has been a while since I've been to such...establishments."

"Establishments? What is this, a strip club?" Eggsy snorts.

"Eggsy," He admonishes, opening the door for him. "What would you recommend?"

"Seriously?" There's a gleam in the boy's eyes.

He ends up getting two happy meals, whatever that is, two large fries, two different kinds of chicken orders, a salad and a toffee sundae.

Harry doesn't think he'll ever get used to the way this boy eats. He merely pushes the drink near his reach, just in case he starts to choke. Harry double-takes at the inside of his own happy meal box.

_Clever._

"Here you go," Harry tries not to look amused, handing over the kid's-toy. Eggsy doesn't disappoint, eyes lighting up and grinning with his mouth full.

Harry starts on his salad, shaking his head.

"So, how did you find me?" Eggsy asks, slowing down on his food.

"Find you?" Honestly, that's just implying all kinds of things. "I was in the area."

"Oh? What for?"

"Tesco, for work supplies," He answers easily.

"Mmm."

"And you?" Harry questions politely.

"Walkin' home from school." He noisily sips his drink through a straw.

"And how is that going?"

Eggsy rolls his eyes. "Better than the last one, I suppose. We actually learn some things. But it could be better."

"How so?"

"Dunno, it's not like it's gonna get me to Oxbridge or somewhat is it?" He laughs derisively.

Harry frowns at the behaviour--he himself is pleasantly surprised. "You have your eyes set on Oxbridge?"

"No," Comes the affronted reply, "but I suppose my mum does. Or just uni, I guess."

"Ah."

"I know right? I mean I'm not gonna be the one tellin' her it ain't gonna happen, maybe she'll grow out of it."

Harry feels out of sorts, having this conversation about a grown woman with her child of a son. Seems a bit reverse.

"How do you know?" He prompts.

Eggsy gives him a level stare. "Mr. Hart, you can't be serious."

"Harry, call me Harry," He interjects, distracted. "Anything is possible, Eggsy. Many people have come from worse and have risen much higher."

Eggsy considers his words, frowning, before laughing and shoving a chicken nugget in his mouth. "Sure, Harry."

Harry abandons his salad and pushes it to the side. "Do you know what you just did today?"

Eggsy scowls. "I stole shit and almost got arrested."

"No, Eggsy," Harry could almost bang his head against the table at how _fond_ his voice sounds--but that would be dreadfully unsanitary. He tries for a more firm tone. "In the end, you resolved it properly with careful thought. They let you go, did they not?"

"I suppose," He reaches for his sundae and fiddles with the plastic container. "Where you goin' with this?"

"Remember this, always: Manners maketh man."

For all Harry imparts such wisdom, he only gets a blank stare in return. He resorts to layman's terms.

"What I'm trying to say is, you can go far in life with manners. With thinking before doing and admitting when you've done wrong and being the better person in general, among other things."

Eggsy shifts in his seat and mutters without feeling, "Sounds dumb."

"That may be so, but it's how you got through today. Let this be a lesson to you."

The boy nods, actually earnest. "Like catching flies with honey 'stead of vinegar?"

"Yes, exactly." Harry smiles and takes a bite of his burger. He chews slowly, trying not to make a face.

"Here, try the chick'n." Eggsy pushes the box towards him.

"Ah--" It would be rude not to take one, honestly. "The varieties of fine dining."

Grinning, Eggsy picks up a nugget and bumps it with his, "Cheers."

Cheeky brat. But what else could he do but honour him the same courtesy? "Cheers."

The boy laughs a full-bodied laugh, shaking with his head thrown back.

An idea begins to form in his mind.

"What are you good at?" Harry asks, once the laughter dies down.

"Gymnastics? Or I used to be, at least." He looks down sullenly and gnaws on a fry. "We had to stop for--you know, reasons."

Harry files that information away for later. "Gymnastics? What about academic endeavours?"

"Dunno, I just do my best, do the work and stuff. Make mum proud and all that." He scrunches his nose.

"Let's put it differently. What do you think you'd be good at? What subjects to do enjoy?"

"Sports? I hate maths, but I'm sure everyone does. I'd like to get better at English, but that's--hmm, Science? Like, chemistry maybe, make stuff happen. Dunno." He rambles on.

"You can get better at English. All you have to do is keep at it, like most things. Even maths."

Eggsy raises a sceptical eyebrow. "Rubbish. Eat your fries before they get soggy."

"I am completely serious." Harry takes a fry anyway, and he finally remembers why he kept coming back all those years ago. "All you have to do is write and write. You or someone else is bound to correct the mistakes which you will learn from. The next time you write, it will be better and the time after that, even better."

"Who would I write to?"

"Why not yourself? A journal, perhaps," He suggests just as his mobile buzzes from his inner coat pocket.

Harry blinks and glances at his watch. Eggsy doesn't miss it.

"Oh well," Eggsy begins, "It's late anyway. Better make my way back." The boy’s forced cheer is almost too much for Harry, who takes his mobile out and stares at the missed call notification that's glaring accusingly at him.

"You'll be taking the food back home with you." Harry's tone brooks no argument.

"Duh, waste not and all that," The boy drawls, packing it up in his bag.

They get to the main road and Harry waits and tries to flag down a cab. A real one.

"I wonder what you think of me," The boy starts, quiet. Harry wonders if he's even meant to hear it, so he simply looks at him, waiting in question.

"I mean, first impressions are probably important and all with you gentlemen posh types. The first time I was in trouble from fighting, and now, instead of making a better impression than the last one, I got in trouble 'cos I stole from Tesco," Eggsy huffs, worn uniform shoes grating against the pavement in circles.

A cab slows down towards them and Harry pats the boy's head through his hat, unthinking in his action and words. "Well, let's hope the third time will be better."

Eggsy looks up at that, and Harry opens the cab door for him to get in. Despite appearing confused, Eggsy goes in regardless.

 _He really shouldn't trust strangers easily_ , Harry thinks, teeth grinding momentarily.

Harry purposely takes out fifty quid and hands it over to him. "Get home safe."

"Mr. Hart," The boy starts, incredulous. Harry puts the money in his hand, squeezing lightly.

"Eggsy," He insists. "Get home safe."

The boy crosses his arms and pouts. Harry genuinely smiles at the sight. Slowly, Eggsy smiles back--just a little. And Harry thinks, he's going to have to come home no matter what mission is thrown at him if he wants to witness this boy rise up to his potential.

"Alright," He sniffs, head held high.

Harry takes a quick glance at the driver before closing the door. He has that face memorised so help him god if anything happens to that boy. Harry waits and watches as the cab drives off, also muttering the plate number under his breath on repeat.

When it disappears from view, he takes out his mobile and calls for Hector.

 

\--»»»

 

One day in November, his mum gets home early in the afternoon, the post in hand. She leaves it on the table where he's doing his homework and she gives him a kiss on the head before going to brew some tea, practically zombie-like.

There's a big thick manila envelope in a deep shade of red with silver linings on the edges that catches Eggsy's notice from the get-go. He leans over to inspect it, ignoring the bills and going straight for the thing.

"Do we know anyone fancy 'nuff to send us one of these?" Eggsy asks, turning it over. It's pretty hefty.

"Hmm?"

Eggsy grumbles at the non-answer and focuses back on the envelope. He carefully opens the flap at the top which goes easily without any tearing. If that's not a sign of a fancy expensive letter, he doesn't know his ABC's.

Damn, it smells good too. He's saving this, you can bet on it. He ain't throwing this away.

"What are you doing?" His mum starts, and Eggsy stops halfway in taking out whatever's in it, caught in the act. She takes the whole thing from him and pulls the rest of it out.

They both stare at the folder.

 

**_Wetherby Preparatory School_ **

**_Opening September 2004_ **

 

_The hell is this?_

From a look he shares with his mum, she doesn't know either.

They crowd against the table as they open it. They flip through what looks to be a prospectus brochure, promising 'excellence' and a 'well-rounded curriculum' with separate pages on academics, sports, performing arts among other things it boasts about.

What the hell, what's the point of this, why is it here?

He pushes the prospectus towards his mum and goes through of what's behind it in the pockets of the folder.

 

**_Registration Form_ **

 

_What?_

Eggsy almost laughs. Going just by the name, it sounds like it's gonna be a posh arse school, _like hell_ he's going. Even if they could afford it.

He scans down the page and something catches his attention.

 

 _'_ _Registration Fee (Non-Refundable): 150 GBP'-- **WAIVED**_

 

Eggsy stares. Something in the back of his mind is trying to claw its way out but it doesn't quite make it. He's not really sure he wants it to.

His mum puts down the prospectus and goes through the rest of the papers while Eggsy just tries to figure it out.

There's a gasp that vaguely sounds like his name, snapping him out of it, alarmed. "Wha--?"

"It's a scholarship!" She shoves a paper at his face, excited. He's never seen her so giddy and alive, it takes him a few seconds to focus on what it says.

And that's how Eggsy is set to attend an assessment day for January, taking short tests and the like, along with 'group' activities. Whatever the hell that means.

He doesn't get his hopes up, but his mum's all for it and god, he can't disappoint her more than he already has. Eggsy watches her filling out them forms bright and eager like it's a fixed lottery or some sort. He has to do his best, no matter what it takes, he has to play along whatever this posh prep school has for him even if just the thought of it disgusts him to no end.

If he makes it, he's gonna go there for Year 8 next Autumn term.

 

»»»

 

The night before Christmas, Eggsy waits for his mum to come home. He's already made some hot cocoa for two all by himself when there's a noise at the door.

It takes him a second to realise the door hasn't opened and his mum ain't actually home yet. Jesus, if he gets murdered the day before Christmas, he's gonna be mad as hell. But he goes on to look and only finds a blue envelope on the floor as if it's been slipped through the crack.

He squints his eyes at it as if it's gonna come to life and bite him. It's not a far off possibility, yeah? He's seen Harry Potter. Some scary shit.

He stomps on it with his bare foot just in case, and feeling no squirming, he picks it up.

Before he gets to look it over, he hears a key turning the lock on the door.

"Happy Christmas Eve, mum." He gives her the cheesiest grin he can, hiding the letter behind his back.

"Oh Eggsy, you still up?" She voices, exasperated and fond. How she expected anything else, he really doesn't know. He walks backwards and grabs the mug of cocoa to give to her in an attempt to distract.

"Aw, thanks, luv." She gives him a warm smile and a pat on the face.

Eggsy nods, returning the smile. He can't help but glance at the letter behind him while she goes on setting down her stuff of the day. He turns back just in time to see the face she's making at the drink.

"Oi! I thought you said I made them nice and tasty, the hell you makin' that face for?" Eggsy whines.

"Sweetie," She starts, almost apologetic, "Just a bit more of the cocoa instead of the sugar next time, maybe?"

He's been making it the same way ever since! Does that mean she's been lying all this time? He can't believe this. She goes on to tweak his recipe in the kitchen. With narrowed eyes, he mentally swears to write this betrayal in his journal for sure. He could fill about another quarter of it just ranting about this. Unbelievable.

He turns the envelope around around and sees--

"Eh, mum, why's the _Talacre Community Sports Centre_ sendin' us a letter?"

"What?"

He gives up on subtlety and hands her the letter, shrugging. "I saw it on the floor all of a sudden, snuck in through the door, probably."

She opens it while he looks for his mug and sips on his hot cocoa. Which is _perfect_ by the way, just the way it is, alright? His mum must have had a long day or something.

"Eggsy."

"Mmm?" He turns.

She has that look on her face again, the one where he can't tell if she's happy or sad or stunned and it's really frustrating. But she gives a watery smile and hands the letter over to him.

"They want you to go back to gymnastics.”

 

 


	6. 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The 'third' time. The beginning of many more after.  
> [Eggsy is 13]

**2005-I**

 

He's on his Spring term at Wetherby and things ain't so bad.

It was difficult in the beginning. You can't blame him really, once you overhear your posh classmates talk about how Prince William and Prince Harry used to be an alumni of the pre-prep branch of the same damn school you're attending, you kinda get anxious. If he didn't think he was an impostor before, he can't escape that thought now. The fact that his body's changing doesn't help at all. He's grown taller, bones aching, among other things.

Apparently, no one knows he's on a scholarship. The first time he brings it up, he wonders out loud if anyone's on it, testing the waters. He gets a couple of scoffing laughter and many different versions of, 'Don't be silly, Gary, this is Wetherby', 'First come, first serve...if you have the _means', '_ There's no such things as scholarships here!'.

Every look sent his way from his classmates and his instructors alike, Eggsy nervously thinks they're gonna find out--that is if they didn't already know. While he does make an effort in posh talk, he just slips every now and then, gaining a few weird looks. He hasn't been practicing talking like Mr. Hart for long to be perfect at it, alright? He hasn't even seen the man in a year and half. Bloody liar. 'A third time,' his arse.

Anyway, test him out on Morse code, he's got it down better than posh talk.

It's bound to happen eventually, he knows it. They're gonna find out, one way or another, no matter how well he plays the part, how polite he gets, how much of a better person he becomes. Eggsy's on edge, and occasionally jumpy. But most of the time, he pretends and gets lost in it. And enjoys.

It ain't so bad then, except there's no girls in sight five days out of the week. It's an all-boys prep for hell's sake, and he goes straight home after. All the girls he sees are either one of the staff, people outside from the window of their classroom, or people outside from the window of his own damn flat. In the weekends maybe, when he ain't too busy with homework and extracurricular activities and chores.

The last school he went to had girls in it. Eggsy was quite a favourite with them. Apparently, manners _was_ a thing. Occasionally. Now, he just goes on practising his winks in the mirror most of the time. He doesn't wanna be incompetent when he gets back out there. The only downside is that he gets this habit of winking at things he shouldn't be winking at.

But anyway despite that tragedy, say what you want about posh institutions but this one's education is top notch-- and the equipment they have? _Ace_. They even had a room full of iMac G5s waiting the first week. It was the latest model then. Eggsy's gotten over the shock of it though. There's so much to do and Eggsy doesn't just learn, he _understands_ the material; he's actually becoming interested in shite he just used to memorise to fill in the blanks.

He used to hate the idea of small class sizes because he could easily be singled out to be a target of scrutiny, but it surprisingly has a bright side. It allows for more individual attention and Eggsy can get a bit of help in things he has trouble understanding, like French. Bloody French.

Quinlan is good at French despite being quiet most of the time, choosing to spend his hours in the computer lab more often than not. Eggsy didn't like him at first, being the silent, tall, skinny waif of a thing that he is with his delicate features, his dark messy mop of a hair and his dismissive behaviour that just screams superiority complex.

Eggsy knows better now of course.

Quinlan _is_ better--at maths, languages, computer skills, science, music, and geography. Practically everything, he's good at everything. Eggsy can't even be mad half the time anymore because he's actually a decent lad once he warms up: an occasional quip here and there, smart arse comments when the teacher walks away, and most of all, despite eye-rolls, Quinlan does end up helping him out with French and maths when Eggsy gets too frustrated in self-loathing.

On the plus side, Eggsy is much, much better with sports. Next to Quinlan, this is where he got most of his friends--The very few that he has in this place, the ones who will probably turn away if they find out who he really is.

Ruthless in playing tennis, footie, rugby, and cricket, Eggsy builds up just a tiny bit of muscle instead of the soft weight he was gaining during the beginning of the first term when he was too reserved with his new classmates to get too deep into it. Relearning gymnastics just wasn't enough. He gets into swimming again and--god, he never would have believed that there was gonna be a time in his life when he can actually say this, but he's been rowing with the Putney Rowing Club at least once a week in the mornings. How posh is that? He sees things differently when he's in the middle of the bloody Thames, rowing away with his team at arse o'clock with the occasional light fog being dramatic as hell.

Representing Wetherby, he's gone on a few competitions with his teams for both footie and rowing, even moving on to one national. They've won a handful of games and Eggsy's been awarded 'Sportsman of the Week' at least three times. All this in less than two academic terms. Eggsy's on fire.

Eggsy draws and paints and goes on school trips to museums and theatres all over London. There's a trip for Barcelona set at the end of term, but Eggsy hasn't been away from his mum that far, and he just doesn't know yet. Either way, he's learned how to read music and he puts it to the test against the classical piano every week. He ain't good _yet,_ not like Quinlan--but he's alright.

There's freshly cooked meals everyday, which administration won't stop talking about and patting themselves on the back for--' _Nutrition and fitness go hand in hand when it comes to health_ '. Really, Eggsy's not the only one rolling his eyes every time they get a pre-lunch speech.

There's a private shuttle bus that takes him to and from school. Eggsy thought that was gonna be a problem at first, that them other kids would see where he lives and the secret would be out, just like that. But the bus just stops at a road where he can pretend to walk towards the expensive houses on Primrose Hill instead of the other direction where he actually lives. He turns back the moment the bus disappears from view and every time the shame burns along with absolute disgust at how he has to do that everyday.

But on the bright side, it takes him like four minutes to get home after that at no cost. Of course he'd probably be home in even less if he didn't have to pretend, but whatever. It’s still early, and the earlier he gets home, the earlier he gets his work done.

His mum is so fucking proud. He sees it in her eyes every time she comes home, when she kisses his hair, when she inspects his uniform hung neatly on the door of his room. _'Just in case--We have to make sure it's perfect for tomorrow.'_

Every time he feels like giving up, he sees her looking like that and he just tries harder. So more often than not, in the silence of his room, kneading the Captain's hat as a habit since he can't wear it after school anymore, nor does it fit comfortably with his growing body, he tries to remember _him_.

Eggsy tries to recall the sound of his voice, his accent, the way he moves, the way he talks, the way he sits, the way he walks. Eggsy doesn't want to forget. His mouth forms words, soft but firm in imitating a phantom voice he hasn't heard in a while, sitting with his back straight but his legs crossed on the bed. _Manners maketh man_ , He breathes. _Manners maketh man_. His eyes are closed and he vaguely wonders if he has to smell like him too, or even _how_ , if he needs to.

Eggsy's learned in class that animals can smell their prey, their _fear_ , and that's how they know.

He hates that he doesn't _exactly_ remember what he smells like and Eggsy swears that if he gets a chance, he'll figure it out; he'll memorise it to the point where he can just practically bend reality just to pinpoint it in a second as if he's actually there.

Eggsy has dreams sometimes. Dreams he doesn't remember, but leave him sticky and wet in his pants by morning regardless--but he doesn't talk about that.

His mum catches him hiding a bunch of soiled clothes to take care of later on, separate from the usual laundry. She just laughs and says it's normal as he turns fucking red.

One of the best things about Wetherby is that for a part of lunchtime, they're allowed to go and play around in a section of Hyde Park. Eggsy starts to like it so much, he thinks he's just gonna want to spend his fourteenth birthday with his mum and walk around parts of it they aren't allowed at school. Other than tube fares, it's practically free sans the food. He also might treat his mum to go boating on the Serpentine since he still has his savings.

Well, it's not really his. But Eggsy hasn't seen the man for a year and a half, it's safe to say he's not gonna see him again, probably. In the off-chance the he does, he probably won't remember the money either. He didn't seem to need it, what with handing a kid he barely knew fifty quid for a taxi, treating him to food twice, and saving him from a lifetime ban from Tesco with a fiver and a life lesson.

Eggsy runs and runs around Hyde Park, breathless but still fighting the urge to laugh. Quinlan may be better at everything else and passable in tennis and swim, but he can't run for shite and he'll never find Eggsy in time at this rate. He looks over his shoulder and can barely see his schoolmates through the trees and bushes. He veers off to a more secluded area and goes on from there.

Using the momentary momentum, he jumps without thinking and climbs a tree. He settles up on a thick branch way up high and the thought comes to him too late. Christ, why is he such an idiot? Eggsy huffs as he checks over his uniform for scrapes. He only has two for hell's sake and they have to be dry cleaned every now and then or else they just wither away and die because posh clothes can't survive the commoner's ways of doing things.

The damage isn't so bad, nothing he can't fix. Eggsy catches his breath and rests up on his spot, enjoying the breeze. He can feel himself smiling like a sap. He hears the dashing footfalls getting louder and Eggsy peers over while simultaneously trying to make himself small, slowly grabbing a smaller branch and pulling it in front of his face for cover.

Not that there's a need for it; They pass by his tree without pause.

There's a moment where it's just his heart thudding. And then he snorts. He tries to stop himself at first, but the laughter just keeps coming and he's just curling up on a branch in Hyde Park because his posh school lets him do that during lunch break, _after_ he’s had a good meal, and he's doing _well_ in school and his mum is _proud_ and Eggsy never thought that his life could be this good. His laughter tapers off into comfortable silence. He doesn't know what could possibly make this better.

He settles back in place, shifting a bit to get comfortable, smiling again. He lays on his front, chin propped on his arms. Eggsy can feel himself get tired. He waves away the worry at how he's gonna get down from here, choosing not to think about it and feeling the wind against his skin as he tries to blink away his drowsiness.

His body tenses, knowing what he's seeing before his mind does.

He's finally gone mad. This can't be real.

There's a man walking tall, long brolly on the side moving with the motion as the hook of it is over his arm. Eggsy can only see the back of him but he knows. He'd know him anywhere. The back of his head--his _hair_ for hell's sake--the way he walks, proud but not pompous; a gentleman at heart.

He can't see if he's wearing a suit, because he's wearing a long black coat--but he supposes the trousers gives it away. Eggsy doesn't even realise he's grinning until it positively hurts.

He holds back from yelling as he watches Mr. Hart turning to face his direction to sit on a bench, opening a newspaper to read--And oh, _gloves_. Was that a thing? And glasses? Is that new? Could it be reading glasses or did his vision get worse during the past year and a half?

From twenty feet away, Eggsy can recognise the high quality suit underneath his coat. Knowing more about it now from his posh schoolmates, he can guess it costs at least half of what his mum earns in a year.

Eggsy frowns. What's he doing here in the middle of the day? You know--funny thing, he never really asked the man what he does for a living.

Some person walks by, and Eggsy thinks nothing of it until the man sits on the other end of the same bench Mr. Hart is on.

What the hell? Eggsy narrows his eyes, willing the guy to get up. There's literally three other empty benches for the bloody taking. And what, he just happens to sit on _that_ one?

Eggsy feels more awake than he's ever been.

This all seems familiar. He tries to figure it out until it comes to him. When it does, Eggsy almost laughs. This is just like those Soviet-era films he saw in the name of 'history' and the 'educational' arts. It had something to do with spies and stuff, meeting at some obscure place like this, trading information or someshit but actually intending to kill each other before they left. The special effects was shite on that one. Like, please, it's two thousand and five already, you'd think they could do better.

Nevertheless, he takes in the scene in front of him, giddy, and makes up all kinds of stories in his head. Mr. Hart could be a spy. A _gentleman_ spy. Like James Bond, but obviously better. Much, much better. Eggsy can't stop a giggle at the thought of Mr. Hart introducing himself all ' _Hart--Harry Hart._ '

 _Christ_.

Eggsy's smile fades the longer he looks on. From what he can see behind the newspaper, he still looks polite and all that but--he seems more closed off. He can't really explain it. Mr. Hart's different. He's just not the same person he thought he knew.

But what does Eggsy know? They've met only twice. Eggsy doesn't know shit.

Discouraged, Eggsy begins to figure out how to get back to ground level. Of course, he looks down and almost loses his balance just at the sight of it. Goddammit, why does he always get himself in these situations?

Eggsy takes a deep breath and takes a second glance down. Oh. Nope. Maybe later. It ain't like gymnastics, okay? There's no soft pad to fall on, which still hurts like hell by the way, so this? The rough sides of a tree, the sharp branches, the blinding leaves, the stones waiting for him at the ground? No, Eggsy doesn't think so. For now, he'll just...stay here. Hopefully Quinlan will notice and rescue his dumb arse.

So what else is there to do but stare at Mr. Hart from a distance really? He should get his fill, he's probably never gonna see the man again.

He's met him twice, so Eggsy probably shouldn't know his tells. But there's something about the way his hand holds his umbrella, Eggsy can't figure it out. Or maybe it's just the gloves.

The man sitting beside him is moving his mouth but Eggsy can't hear shit, he's twenty feet away. Mr. Hart folds his newspaper and sets it down on his lap. He places his arm over it, the same one that's holding the brolly, and glances around the secluded area of the park. He starts to tinker with his watch while his eyes rove around, slow and careful.

It takes Eggsy a while to realise the man beside him is slumped back on the bench, conked out.

What a weirdo.

Brows getting furrowed, Mr. Hart blinks as his gaze goes back over to where Eggsy's hiding place is, behind another tree and thick layers of branches and leaves. It's only then that Eggsy remembers his got his mobile in his pocket. He pulls it out. He ain't got the man's number in it, but it does have a flashlight feature.

Eggsy can only hope the man gets Morse code. If not, he'll at least see something flashing. But will he see it in the daylight? He waves his mobile, flashing ‘S.O.S.’ on repeat. Eggsy wonders why he doesn't just yell, but he sticks to his instincts on this one.

Mr. Hart stands stiff with his face blank as he takes a few steps forward with his brolly. The wind blows and rustles the leaves on its branches. Eggsy can see the moment Mr. Hart catches sight of him, eyes widening a fraction.

Before Eggsy can even grin, Mr. Hart turns around swiftly, looking up to the sky--which, _Oi_. Rude as hell.

Frowning, Eggsy glances back down to the ground and wonders if he can just wing it. NHS probably covers broken bones.

"Eggsy?" He's never heard the man so unsure before. Eggsy is actually concerned.

Mr. Hart isn't wearing his glasses anymore and he's ten feet away when he stops. There's a look of mild shock on his face that still hasn't gone away and it almost looks devastated. Eggsy wants to ask what's wrong, but Mr. Hart's expression closes off--and that is so much worse.

"What are you doing?" The question comes, flat. And hey, what the hell? Eggsy shifts in his place, uncomfortable.

"I'm stuck in a tree, what does it look like I'm doing?" He counters, putting his mobile back in his pocket and dangling a leg in trying to feel for a spot he can use to come back down.

"Alright, just--" Mr. Hart abruptly raises his hands, flash of unease on his features. "Stay. Be careful."

He makes his way towards the tree and sets his umbrella standing against its trunk. After that, he manages to grab Eggsy's ankle in a light hold. "Alright, come on."

"'Come on', what?" Eggsy asks, incredulous. Mr. Hart gives him a dry look. And that, _there_. There he is.

Eggsy throws his other leg over so he's just sitting, both legs dangling on the same side. "What should I do?"

The hand not on his ankle reaches up towards him.

"You've gotta be kiddin'," His accent comes out in full force and by habit he tones it back a little, "M'shoes are dirty. I'm gonna mess up your clothes."

"It's fine, just--get down from there. Come here, I've got you," He replies instantly, beckoning. If Eggsy didn't know any better, he almost looks worried.

Without further warning, Eggsy jumps, eyes closed. As they collide, an arm goes around his waist and the other goes around his upper back to his neck, holding him, and all he knows is that his limbs fucking cling, because shit, that ain't like gymnastics but that rush of thrill is amazing.

When he comes to, his ankles are crossed behind the lower end of Mr. Hart's back and his arms are thrown across his shoulders, hands still clenched on his coat.

And _Christ_. He smells good.

 _Fuck_. How did he not notice it before, and if he did how could he ever have forgotten? Eggsy clings harder, thoughtless, pushing his face further against the crook of his neck. What the hell is that smell? He has to find out. Fuckfuckfuck.

The hand on the back of his neck squeezes before going up through his hair, reassuring, "It's alright. You're safe now."

"'fanks, Mr. Hart," Eggsy mumbles, hoping to stay until he's sure his face isn't red anymore. It's from the adrenaline probably. He's feeling a little light-headed too. "Dunno where I'd be without ya." That was meant to be sarcasm. Did it come across as sarcasm? Damn.

"'Harry', my dear boy," He corrects softly, an exhale against his hair.

"'fanks, Harry," He murmurs, hazy. Eggsy breathes deep and lets him go because the man's probably gonna be accused of being a paedo for the third bloody time if anyone dares to pass by. Jesus.

Eggsy rubs the back of his neck, feeling the fucking heat of it. Mr. Hart clears his throat as he takes back his umbrella, "You look different."

"Huh? Oh yeah," He pulls on his uniform, making sure it's neat and shit. "I go to a different school now. I think you'd like it. Probably your type of--" He was actually gonna say _establishment_ , Jesusfuck, Unwin. "--posh institution."

"Is that so? That doesn't explain what you are doing here." His voice is different again and looking at his face, Eggsy can't read it. He hates it.

"Calm down, I ain't skippin’ alright? It's break-time, we're allowed to mess about in parts of Hyde park," He explains, slightly fibbing. Because by now Eggsy's realised he's not meant to be this far out and he can only hope no one notices. He pulls his mobile out to look at the time. "Ah, should probably be on my way back too," He adds, hoping it doesn't sound as dejected as he feels.

He just stands there, waiting for he doesn't know what, and something on Mr. Hart's face looks like conflict as he fiddles with his watch, glancing at the sleeping man on the bench far away and back to Eggsy.

"Well..." Eggsy starts, turning in the direction he should be going.

"May I walk you back?" Mr. Hart offers. From the way he closes his mouth right away, he didn't mean to ask. And oh god.

" _Aye_ \--yes," Eggsy answers in a rush before the man can even take it back, "Yes." He loops his arm around his and drags him off to a walk.

There's an awkward sort of silence and Eggsy ignores it, humming off-key. This close to him, he realises he's almost past the man's shoulders in height already. He feels his own chest puff up with pride before exhaling all the air in his lungs. Because this close he can still smell him too and Eggsy has to remember this, no matter how many deep breaths he has to take to have the scent down.

"This school you are in now, how is it?" The question comes.

Eggsy doesn't even have to put on a show because he's pretty sure his eyes are lighting up when he gushes on about how much he likes it.

"Do they treat you _well_ , I mean," Mr. Hart restates his question.

"They treat me okay, I suppose?" Eggsy shrugs.

"You suppose?"

"Yeah, yeah, you know how it is. Posh schoolboys and the like. Not that they know who I am though. I'm pretty sure they'd..." Eggsy cuts himself off. Why is he rambling about his problems to this man? It's not like he's interested or something. Christ, Unwin, shut up.

"Do you think they would--Do you think they will do something?" Mr. Hart prompts, careful. Something in his voice makes Eggsy straighten his own posture as they walk on.

"Nah." Eggsy isn't even sure if he's lying or not. "It don't matter. I'm good with sports and there's only one term left after this one. I'm sure I can make it."

He turns to look up to Mr. Hart, smiling brightly. But the man's pursing his lips and looking straight ahead. Eggsy tries to get his attention and squeezes his forearm which-- _Oh_ , that's firm. Does he work out or something? It's probably just the layers of his posh clothes.

Eggsy clears his throat and changes the subject. "What are _you_ doing here?"

His voice fucking _cracks._ Shit, he's gonna die of embarrassment. He's gonna die, he fucking swears it--Doesn't mean he won't try for damage control though. He clears his throat.

"Shut up, it's puberty, okay? Me mum says I'm a late-bloomer," He blurts in a rush, letting go of his hold around the man's arm and pushing his hands in his pockets. He's pretty sure he's made it worse. God, 'late-bloomer'? Really?

"I've noticed," Mr. Hart concedes neutrally, ever the diplomat that he is. Eggsy thinks he hears a little smile in his voice though, so that's something. It's kinda infectious.

They get to a familiar spot and Eggsy stops, turning to him. "Well, this is it for me."

Mr. Hart's eyebrows goes up, looking around at the empty space.

"Well," Eggsy starts. How the hell can he possibly say ' _I don't wanna get you in trouble 'cos our guide of the day might see you and think you're a paedo and get you arrested and we just can't have that_ ' without being offensive? "I can--"

"Eggsy," Mr. Hart interrupts him. And since when does he interrupt anyone? Isn't that like, against manners?

The man glances down at his watch, fiddling with it again before looking up at him. He almost seems apologetic as he steps closer.

"Eggsy!"

Eggsy turns to see Quinlan coming from in between the trees, slightly out of breath, hair out of place.

"Quinnie!" He yells just as loud, grinning at the sight. Quinlan _hates_ that nickname. His schoolmate takes a deep breath, trying not to look bothered by the physical shite he just did. There's a flash of annoyance before his expression closes up, looking at something past Eggsy's shoulder, stopping in his walk a few feet away, almost wary.

_Oh. Shit._

"Uhh," He takes a quick glance to check if Mr. Hart's still there and yep-- Eggsy grins a bit too wide, beckoning Quinlan, "This is my--er, Mr. Hart, Quinlan, my mate. Quinlan, Mr. Hart," He hastily introduces them.

Mr. Hart offers a hand, face unreadable, "Quinlan."

"Sir." Quinlan nods, distant but polite, taking his hand in a quick firm shake.

 _Oh god. Oh godohgod_ , Eggsy thinks.

But Quinlan just steps back, glancing between the man and Eggsy twice before letting indignation show through his impassive face.

"Well, come on then, Unwin," He continues on as if nothing's happened. "If this excursion gets cancelled because of your shenanigans, I swear to god," Quinlan mutters, head held high, turning back to the direction he came from.

_Jesusfuckthankgod. Bless him. Bless Quinlan._

Eggsy turns to Mr. Hart, wanting to say goodbye but--

The man merely nods, too formal. And Eggsy hates it so much he just wants to run up to him and do something stupid to make him smile but--Eggsy just waves at him, tail between his legs, and follows Quinlan.

 

* * *

 

"I take it you took care of the... _anomaly,_ " Merlin tries to get him to confirm.

Harry simply nods, turning to the window. They aren't wearing their glasses. It is after-hours--well, as after-hours it can get with Kingsman-- and they're in Harry's office having a nightcap. It doesn't stop Merlin from trying to catch up on paperwork though, this particular one regarding a... _technical_ issue with Galahad's glasses during his mission earlier today. Arthur will want to know why the video-audio feed cut off for a few seconds, returned for another handful, and went dark for an approximate time of three minutes and forty-one seconds after that.

"Was it worth it? Your, what, sixteen thousand pounds of spending for a year of tuition?" Merlin asks, offhand. At first, there is no reply, and he peers at him from over his tablet. Harry simply hums--like it's normal to spend that amount of money on a child that isn't even yours.

"Galahad." Using his codename gets his attention enough that the man turns his head towards him, questioning.

Merlin only stares and Harry looks away to the window once more, lost in thought. "He's worth it."

Merlin doesn't know what to say to that. He can not even begin to rationalise this situation. It's not just the guilt, not anymore.

"Oh," Harry starts, remembering something. "Your son sent his regards."

Merlin stiffens. "Did he, now?"

"Well, no," He almost sounds apologetic. "Not exactly."

Merlin distracts himself with his tablet once more.

He's got a long night ahead of him.

 

 


	7. 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Meetings at the park+Surprise characters  
> [Eggsy is 13]

 

Harry kills a man early on schedule for the day. He reports to HQ for his debriefing, ignoring Merlin's inquisitive looks, and takes the whole day off instead of volunteering for another mission post-haste. Besides, there are no emergencies, no immediate spots needing filling. The agency is doing well and he goes through the underground transport, coming out of the shop in Savile Row.

He takes his glasses off.

The people at McDonald's look at him odd, which is understandable. It is also fine since he's doing a carry out anyway.

Harry hasn't calculated the amount of exertion it would take to burn off the calories two large fries and a box of chicken tenders will accumulate. He's not really the type to worry about such things. Even if it wasn't for his job, he likes to think the power stroll to Hyde Park should be sufficient.

It takes less than ten minutes and then he's sat on the same bench he was on thirteen days ago. He just takes a moment to breathe, hearing the sounds of nature and basking in the feel of it. Except the birds, they can piss off.

Harry refuses to think about why he's here and opens the paper bag, reaching in for the fries. The things are already in his mouth when he hears a snort. It's incomprehensible, the relief that floods him.

"Would you like some?" He offers after chewing and swallowing.

Eggsy comes bounding up towards him, but his reach for the food stops halfway. "I've had a healthy lunch. 'Cos apparently nutrition and fitness go hand in hand," He says, almost in recital. Harry raises an eyebrow and uncharacteristically shrugs, taking another handful of fries to eat. They're not soggy despite the trip. This all feels very rewarding.

"Dammit, I didn't say I didn't want it." The boy holds his hand out, demanding.

Harry's tempted to give him a lesson. In what, he's not quite sure--but he feels the quirk of his own mouth as he takes out a box of fries before handing the whole bag over. "There are chicken tenders in those."

The look on Eggsy's face is pure delight as he looks in the bag. "Have I converted you? From since then? All this time?"

"No." Harry eyes the amount of fries in the boy's hand. It's a bit too much just to--the boy shoves it all in his mouth. Maybe he should have gotten drinks with that. "Merely treating myself for once."

"Mmm, to be honest with ya, I haven't had much either. Been busy." Eggsy takes out another box and opens it, holding it out to him.

"I bet." Harry can feel himself smiling as he takes a piece of chicken. "Cheers."

The boy's genuine laugh rings out through the space around them. Eggsy hastily picks up his own piece, trying to catch up. "Cheers."

"Where do you intend to go after this year?"

"Whatcha mean?"

Harry takes a pause to think carefully. "You have said before, last time we met. You only have a term left, after this one. Where do you intend to go?"

"Well, this school only goes up to year eight, and even if it didn't I'm on some sort of scholarship. Tha's all."

"Exactly. To where have you applied to?"

"Applied?"

Harry thanks his job and its training for letting him get through this conversation patiently and uncompromised.

"What school are you going to next?"

The boy slows on his chewing, looking at him as if he hadn't considered that before. He probably hasn't considered that before. Christ.

"Eton, perhaps?" He suggests. Eggsy has gained good enough manners to turn to the other side completely before he coughs all the food in his mouth to a fit of laughter.

The worst part is that he doesn't know whether or not to be disgusted, or charmed instead.

"Wot?" The boy turns back stare at him, incredulous. Harry actually lets out a sigh.

"From your uniform, I take it you're a student at Wetherby Preparatory. It is indeed a 'posh' institution. The type that feeds its students to the very best schools of the nation, including Eton."

Eggsy seems to realise he's serious and appears to get more upset as he goes on, "Eton? Eton, with the posh snobby brats who think they're better than anyone else? That Eton?"

Harry takes his time in trying to figure out what to say. Eggsy beats him to it, "Is this--what, did you go to Eton? Is this a sales pitch?"

Him? Eton? Harry purses his lips in an attempt to hide his sneering affront at the mere idea. He looks at the boy, and thinks he deserves a bit of honesty. "Do you want to know a secret?"

Eggsy nods, half-wary and half-eager.

"I was kicked out of Eton my third year."

His eyes go wide, but before the barrage of questions can even come up a vibration interrupts the moment.

The boy takes out his mobile, apologetic. Eggsy glances at the screen and shoves another handful of fries in his mouth with a type of veracity. He stands, appearing to be quite miffed, reminiscent of a squirrel in preparation for hibernation with its mouth all full. "Dammit, you can't jus' drop a bomb like tha'," He chews and swallows some of it down, motioning to his mobile regretfully. "I hafta go."

The way the boy just stands there, buzzing with energy to leave yet rooted to the spot almost as if _waiting_ \--it somehow lessens the astonishing disappointment. "Needs must," Harry waves away vaguely to the direction he knows Eggsy is going to go. "Take whatever you'd like with you. I have my own set of fries."

Eggsy walks to leave but turns back just as quickly, "Well, this wouldn't have happened if you wasn't late."

Harry likes to think he's successful in hiding his surprise. He wonders if the boy knows he's actually pouting as he goes on, "We get here about twelve thirty, mess around for like forty-five before we get back. So..."

He haltingly tapers off before resolutely walking away, his head haloed by the gracious sun filtering through the trees despite the abundance of clouds. It takes Harry a bit to process what he actually means.

"Eggsy," Harry calls out, mouth closing. The boy turns towards him anyway, and he doesn't know what to say. "I--have a job."

A raised eyebrow prompts him to move on. "It has irregular hours. I might not be able to..."

With regret, he hopes it's self-explanatory. _Don't wait for me_ , he should say. He can't say.

For a moment, the boy frowns. But he stomps back towards Harry with what appears to be determination, looking down at his mobile. "What's your number?"

Harry has never been rendered so speechless all in one day. He watches the boy flush--with what he doesn't know. It must be that spring flu that's been going around, he rationalises. "Er..."

"Do ya have a pen or somesort?" Eggsy interrupts, putting his mobile back in his pocket.

By default, Harry palms his own pockets, feeling something there. It's a Kingsman-issued fountain pen. He stares at it for a second, and finds himself opening the cap, giving it to Eggsy with the sharp end pointing towards himself.

"Schmancy," Eggsy mutters, holding his other hand out. Harry isn't sure what for, but his hand seems to know, reaching for him.

Eggsy takes his hand, turning it over, pushing the sleeve cuff of his suit and shirt up. Just below the strap of his watch, Eggsy swipes at the wrist with his thumb, invoking a strange sensation before he proceeds to write on Harry's skin with poison ink.

It's a slow realisation, the recklessness of it, the trust, and the madness. The tip is sharp, and with the way he writes, firm, it could easily pierce through his skin and end him. Harry doesn't pull away.

Every scratch of it leaves him cold and burning, yet somehow comforting in its raw, sharp reality. Harry can see his skin raised under the ink and thinks it's almost like a tattoo. A tattoo of a combination of numbers, connecting him to the person whose name is also a series of letters on his skin.

"There," Eggsy says, satisfied with his signature on Harry's wrist, written _thrice_ over in layers, unaware. "Perfect."

 

»

 

Harry has a personal mobile. It has two numbers in it: Merlin's, and the Italian restaurant two streets away from his house.

He also has a home phone for everything else, therefore the importance of his personal mobile isn't that high. More often than not, he leaves it at home. He can always call for a reservation using a telephone booth.

In the privacy of his home office, Harry stares at his wrist. Most of the skin is still raised in an inflammatory reaction to the ink, but it is still legible. Even if it wasn't, it's a number he already knew. A name he already knew.

He knows he's frowning, but he doesn't know why.

He knows he won't contact the boy, not yet, for as long as he can.

He knows he won't be there every day. He knows he _shouldn't_ be there every day. He's not meant to.

Harry takes a bandage and wraps it around his wrist after disinfecting it. He'll wear his watch over it until it fades away.

 

»»

 

Harry never contacts him to confirm whether or not he is able to be there; he can't risk him knowing his personal contact information.

For security reasons, he justifies.

Eggsy is always there regardless.

 

»»»

 

"There's a trip to Barcelona. In three weeks," The boy mentions beside him.

"Are you nervous?"

"No," He insists. Harry doesn't have to look to know the boy's almost pouting.

"Alright, what ever you say." He flips a page on his book, a little smile on his lips.

"It's just--me mum."

The birds chirp in the background and he doesn't even want to kill a man. "What about her?"

"Dunno, we haven't been that far apart, ever." Eggsy goes on, "I mean, what would she do without me?"

Harry considers the statement.

"Your mother is a grown woman who has raised you well. Alone," Harry articulates slowly. "I gather she's pretty strong if she's gotten this far."

"Of course she's strong!" Eggsy bristles.

"Then she'll be fine," Harry concludes.

The boy huffs, chomping away at his crisps.

Harry folds the very corner of the page, intending to cause very little damage as possible when he closes it. "The question is, will you be?"

He looks over to him, and Eggsy stops his crunching to scowl at him, mouth full. Harry can't help but smile. This boy is ridiculous.

"Aren't ya worried 'bout me?" He licks the crumbs and salt off his fingers.

Harry straightens his spine, opening a bottled water. "Why should I be?"

"Dunno. It's a different country, really. What if I get kidnapped and sold to sexual slavery?"

Harry chokes on water. "What?"

"Quinlan told me all kinds of things tha' happen all over Europe."

Fucking Quinlan. Bloody hell, that _creature_ , masquerading as a child. Harry attempts to recover, dabbing a handkerchief over his mouth.

"Rest assured, you will not get kidnapped and sold to... _slavery_."

Not if he can help it.

"Cool. You have my number, yeah?"

"I do." He nods, stiff, twisting his wrist.

"M'kay."

 

\---»

 

When Eggsy gets home one day, he finds a man on the couch. He manages to hold back the instinct to attack, the kind of reaction you'd have out of pure surprise and defensiveness when you find a stranger in your own home.

Except his mum comes out from the kitchen with tea and nervously laughs. "Oh, Eggsy. You're home."

"Mum." He smiles at her, trying not to let on that he was about to throw a chair at their apparent guest.

"Eggsy, this is Dean. Dean, this is my son, Eggsy."

Eggsy genuinely smiles at the man and offers a hand to shake. After all, he's been playing good polite boy with manners all day. Might as well. Mr. Hart always said that you can tell a lot just by a person's hand shake.

The man smiles back, grip strong, a bit on the overcompensating side.

The smile doesn't really reach this man's eyes.

 

»»

 

When Quinlan asks him to hang out during the weekend, Eggsy is surprised. He says yes. His mum has a thing for Dean, he can tell. She says he's just a friend from work. Okay, sure. But he wants her to be happy, so he's giving her space.

He'll wait for her to get over him.

Eggsy doesn't wanna think about it.

It takes him about two hours to find acceptable clothes and they meet in Kensington Arcade.

"What are we doing today?" Eggsy asks, looking at all the shops with things he can't afford.

Quinlan ignores him, typing on his big brick of a mobile as he walks. Eggsy follows him, curious and quiet.

"Have you thought about where you're going to go after?"

"After what?"

"Wetherby."

Eggsy groans. Fucking hell. Not this again. Why is everybody so interested about where he's gonna go?

"Thought so. I don't know where I'm going either, so--we're going to have a look."

They take the tube, and before Eggsy can even pay for himself, Quinlan beats him to it, giving him a day-ticket with a dry look. "I asked you out, Eggsy. I'm paying."

Eggsy's face doesn't burn but it's a near enough thing. It's not like it's pity or anything. Quinlan doesn't know who he really is. Right?

It's also not a date. Right?

The first place they look at is St. Paul's School. It directly faces the River Thames and Quinlan tells him it's about forty-three acres. No shit. Eggsy's overwhelmed at how grand the fucking place is.

"They have a scholarship here," Quinlan mentions, offhand. Eggsy stares at him, heart pounding. "I was thinking of getting a music scholarship or an academic one."

Eggsy hopes the rush of breath coming out of him isn't too obvious. "Aren't you loaded as hell?"

"My father is," He replies, head held high. "Doesn't mean I am."

Quinlan's a strange one, alright. It doesn't tick Eggsy off any less though.

"And what about the people who don't have any in their family who's actually loaded? Who can't afford them fees and actually need the scholarship?" He challenges.

"If the institution chooses me due to my prowess in music or academia, how is that my fault? It means I did better than the other candidates," _That I'm better than them_ , it comes unsaid, "That I earned my place."

"Well," Eggsy flounders, "If you didn't compete in the first place, someone else woulda been chosen, someone who actually needed it."

Quinlan only hums, unaffected.

"It's only theoretical, Unwin. Don't get so flustered."

Eggsy shuts his mouth.

The next stop is King's College School. Way down south of London. It does have girls though, he can see some as their group of the Open Day tour come together. Nice.

Quinlan gives him a chiding look at his ogling. "You haven't seen a girl in your life before?"

"We go to an all-boys school for hell's sake. I'm deprived," He explains, getting flustered anyway.

"More like depraved," He mutters back at him.

Despite all control, his eyes keep lingering to one girl. And not for the reason Quinlan might think, okay? Jesus. Well, she's pretty, that's for sure. Long brown hair in a high ponytail, nice clothes, probably too high class to ever look his way. What keeps catching his attention is the thing in her hand. It looks like a big thick fancy [lipstick](http://i.imgur.com/o0ycK6P.jpg) with a mirror on it. It's excessive as hell, because who has a mirror _on_ a lipstick? It's weird.

It's fucking weirder when she does something, extending it to less than an inch, the mirror of it changing to what looks like to be a [screen](http://i.imgur.com/JMH0s2N.jpg), and snaps a fuckin' photo of a statue with the thing.

Eggsy blinks and it's as if it never happened. What the fuck? What is this, _Mission Impossible_?

He glances around to see if anyone noticed that shit. No one did. No one. He meets Quinlan's eyes and he's giving him that 'pay attention or else' look.

When the tour finishes, they get back to the tube station. Eggsy really stopped paying attention. He can't afford that shit, so what's the point?

"How's the female branch of St. Paul's, Roxanne?"

At first, Eggsy is confused. He only notices from the mirror twenty feet across that the same girl is with them, standing right next to Quinlan.

"They have equestrian for sports," The girl says.

"That's good isn't it?" Quinlan prompts, staring straight ahead.

Eggsy can only gawk at the mirror, stunned. They know each other?

"Not really, maybe in three years." She frowns, "Like King's College and Westminster, they only admit girls at sixteen."

"Pity, that. Have you checked Godolphin and Latymer?" Quinlan suggests.

She gives him a scathing glare.

"Guess you're stuck in Wycombe Abbey for the next three years then."

"Like hell," She grumbles.

Quinlan finally seems to remember Eggsy. Which, thanks bruv, really. Who's depraved now, eh?

"Apologies, how rude of me. Roxanne, this is my schoolmate, Gary. Gary, this is my... _cousin_ , Roxanne."

They shake hands, and Eggsy's caught off-guard by her grip. He likes her already.

Quinlan leans in for a loud whisper, "Don't go crushing on her now."

_Jesus fuck. Fucking Quinlan._

"I ain't crushin' on anybody," He blurts in quick defence. So much for talking posh.

Roxanne just gives him an odd look and a genuine smile before turning to Quinlan. "I'm hungry, let's eat."

They end up in a fancy café and they're met with two more posh blokes. Eggsy wonders how this is his life now. He shifts in his seat, trying not to look uncomfortable as he feels. It's worse when he sees the prices on the menu. Quinlan orders him something though, and does good on his promise to pay for it. They all don't seem to be too bad, especially Roxanne. He thinks she's pretty ace; She's already beaten one of the guys at arm-wrestling within five minutes of sitting down.

Their last stop turns out to be Westminster, and damn, it takes his breath away.

'Cos let's be real, it's probably haunted.

"What do you reckon, Quin?" Roxanne asks, eyes shining.

Quinlan just shrugs, nonplussed as always, "Westminster's alright; One of the top schools."

"What, you want to get shipped off to Eton?" She teases. Quinlan's face is hilarious as hell, speaking for itself. The other posh boys make defensive remarks. They're obviously aiming for Eton. More proof to steer clear from the bloody place.

"Well, Uncle Galahad went to Westminster, didn't you know, Quin?"

Galahad? What kind of old posh name is Galahad? Sweet lord. Eggsy wants to laugh.

"I know," Quinlan replies, eyes rolling.

Roxanne is left with the boys as Quinlan takes Eggsy back to the tube station. He has gymnastics in three hours.

"Thanks, bruv," He says, 'cos manners y'know.

"Don't mention it."

The whole day gives Eggsy much to think about when he gets home. He ends up writing it in his journal.

Before he leaves for gymnastics, he makes note to look at the funded schools around when he has the time and talk about it with his mum.

 

\--»

 

Harry hears about the 'posh grandeur' of everything the boy saw over the weekend and the numbers that came along with it.

"Grandeur?" He repeats, refraining from pressuring him by not asking any more about schools. He'll give him more time to think about it.

"Hey, I do pay attention in class, ya know." Eggsy turns his nose up and affects an air of superiority. "My vocabulary is _extensive_ and ever _thriving_."

Harry scoffs, covering up his laughter. He refuses to believe he sounds anything as such.

Eggsy continues on a more serious note. "The journal really does help. I flipped back to what I wrote like a year ago and I almost cried in agony. Swear down. You'd make fun of me too."

Harry smiles, shaking his head. There's a mild surprise at the mention of a journal but he doesn't pry. The boy goes on to gush about an odd lipstick thing, half-wondering if he's crazy. Nevertheless, he humours him, hanging on to every word.

"'Cos I saw it, I swear. Roxanne did this thing where she just pulled on it on both ends and--"

"Roxanne?"

"Yeah, that's her name. And she took a photo with it. Swear down. It was wicked, I want one..." He goes on to describe it in detail all over again while it simply clicks for Harry.

_What a small world._

He begins to worry about how smaller it could possibly get. Chester is a busy man, his and Eggsy's world shouldn't collide. Shouldn't.

"It's a mobile."

"Wot?" Eggsy stops in his rant.

"What you're talking about. I know it. It's a [Nokia](http://www.gsmarena.com/nokia_7280-884.php) of some sort. The Finnish are innovative on that front."

"Oh. Nice." The boy’s shoulders slump. "Well, that's a mystery solved then. I thought she was a spy or somethin'."

An awkward laugh uncharacteristically escapes Harry.

 

\--»

 

Eggsy waits for Quinlan to bring it up. He waits, and waits and waits. Eggsy doesn't know whether to be thankful or to be offended that he doesn't seem to worry about his mate being alone with a strange man in a secluded area of the park. It wasn't only the first time. Quinlan is smart as hell. He's pretty sure he knows where Eggsy's gone and who with during their Hyde Park excursions. Quinlan's always the one texting him, telling him it's time to come back.

But this way, he has more time to make up excuses.

It's Friday and he's changing for P.E. when he realises Quinlan isn't there. Which means the bastard is skipping because he just saw him earlier. And Eggsy knows he's gonna get in trouble, but he puts his uniform back on anyway and slips out.

Surprisingly, Eggsy gets it wrong on the first try. He ain't in the computer lab. But he does find him in the custodial closet, typing away on something that looks like a tiny [laptop](http://i.imgur.com/m6z8mRx.jpg). What the hell is that even? It probably costs more than Eggsy's soul.

Eggsy just stares by the door and crosses his arms, trying to look all cool and disappointed for when Quinlan finally turns to see him there. Except Quinlan doesn't. He just keeps tapping away on that keyboard, face staring straight at the screen.

He's not even playing games or nothing for hell's sake. It's just a screen with words and words. Eggsy gives up. "What are ya doin'?"

"You're supposed to be in P.E." Quinlan replies, fingers not stopping at all.

"So are you," Eggsy counters.

"I'm not on a 'scholarship'."

Eggsy's heart fuckin' stops. _Christ_. _Fuck, this is it_. _Oh god_.

"Calm down, Eggsy. If anyone here doesn't belong, it would be me."

Quinlan closes his device and--what the fuck? That was his brick of a [mobile](http://i.imgur.com/ftXmsQ3.jpg) all along? What the fuck is this shit?

"Are you some sort of spy?" Eggsy blurts, accusing. 'Cos he was pretty suspicious of Roxanne too. Is his whole clan made out of spies?

Quinlan only rolls his eyes.

"Come over after school."

Eggsy is left in the room trying not to have an attack.

 

 


	8. 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The rise and the fall  
> [Eggsy is 13]

 

Quinlan's place is nice, but not as posh as he thought it would be. It's more modern on the inside than what you'd think it'd be just from looking outside.

"You want some juice or something?"

Eggsy flinches back to reality.

Quinlan notices. "Trust me, no one's home. No one's going to hear this conversation, so don't worry."

That ain't ominous whatsoever.

"What you said, that you didn't belong, what did you mean?" Eggsy goes straight for it. If Quinlan's rolling his eyes, this whole situation shouldn't be too bad.

"How old do you think I am?" Quinlan starts.

"Dunno."

"I'm turning sixteen this year," Quinlan tells him, blunt.

Eggsy stares. And laughs. "Mate, come on. I mean I know you're smart and tall for your age but...that's just bonkers."

"My mother raised me alone in France. She's dead now, of course," Quinlan says it all in monotone, and it cuts through Eggsy's attempt at humour. "That's really only how my father found out about me. I didn't want to leave, but here I was being shipped off to England---and...he's not really the homey type, my father."

Eggsy feels a sort of chill at his empty smile. Quinlan continues on, almost bored.

"So I ran away. I succeeded for a while, but he found me. He put me in Wetherby for 'continued' education. It's practically just punishment, next to having Wetherby on my record. Looks nice, I suppose."

His mind is still reeling at the thought of Quinlan being _rebellious_ of all people. "How is it punishment?" Eggsy's too curious not to follow along.

Quinlan gives him a pointed look. "I _am_ smart for my age. I could easily be in uni by now for hell's sake, not in bloody baby school--No offence."

Nodding, Eggsy tries to take it all in. That's an expensive punishment. Rich people are wild.

"So don't worry about the scholarship issue. I was raised in a small town, hardly posh." He admits.

"Why are you telling me this?"

"To make you feel better."

Eggsy scowls and Quinlan laughs. It's actually genuine and it almost scares him. It tapers off to a soft smile and Quinlan looks him straight in the eyes.

"Don't let other people bring you down, no matter what happens, whether or not they find out."

There's a swell of emotions and Eggsy tries not to let it show. But this is it, Quinlan knows who he is and he's more than fine with it. All his life he had trouble making real friends and who woulda thought it would be this bloke? Shit. He looks up at the ceiling, staving off the tears welling up in his eyes. Goddamn, what is this shit? Goddammit.

"Why does tha' sound like a goodbye?" He accuses instead.

"It's not goodbye," He scoffs, grinning. "Not yet. For now let's work on your education."

"My education?" Eggsy exclaims, offended.

"You always complain about your failed exams. If anyone should be complaining it's me, but anyway, I have faith in you, Gary Unwin. You just have to show them you've caught up once you get to wherever you're going."

 

\--»

 

The boy shifts against him on the bench, eyes closed, curling up under Harry's thick coat. London's been hit by a cold spell. It's a ghastly start of the week with skies dreadfully grey, leaving everything damp and chilly.

He almost hoped Eggsy wouldn't be here today. Almost.

"Have you given it much thought?"

"Mmm?"

"The school," Harry urges, gentle.

"Mmm," The boy mumbles.

The boy didn't get much sleep, studying hard. He also had to play indoor sports throughout the day, so it shouldn't be surprising that all this in combination with the weather has curtailed the boy's usual ebullience.

It doesn't make his company any less enjoyable, however.

Harry feels the time ticking by and he doesn't want to waste it. Deadlines have passed a long, long time ago, but Harry will find a way. He has to know where he wants to go.

"Eggsy." He gives a soft nudge with his elbow.

"Mmm."

Harry sighs and gives in to the warmth on his side.

A few minutes pass by and he attempts to begin again, turning his head toward him. Harry is met with Eggsy's hair, and he breathes before strengthening his resolve. "You're going to be in Barcelona by Friday night."

"Mmm." He can feel the boy make a face against his arm.

"Are you ready?"

"Mmm," He grunts. That is an obvious no.

They stay that way for a few more minutes until something buzzes. It takes the boy awhile to wake up, hands feeling everywhere trying to find it. His fingers graze the side of Harry's thigh before he manages the task.

"Bloody Quinlan," Eggsy huffs, turning a bit red as he shoves his face back against Harry's suited arm. He considers that he should risk the boy knowing his number, so he can tell him not to come over when the weather is terrible. Eggsy might get a fever just from today by the looks of it.

"Eggsy," Harry begins, rueful. "You must go."

The boy grumbles in frustration. It's practically a whine.

"Should I carry you to the pickup point?" Harry mildly threatens, sounding rather amused.

"Mmm, yeah," Eggsy mumbles against his sleeve, "Carry me."

Harry looks down at him, feeling his own eyes widen fractionally in astonishment.

Does the boy realise he's just asked a man he occasionally meets in a secluded area of a park to carry his sleeping, vulnerable self around the woods--a man who, as far as he knows, he's only met twice before such meetings began?

Ridiculous. What would it take to threaten this boy? What would it take to make him less trusting? What would it take to keep him safe?

"Eggsy," He starts warningly.

The boy only pushes himself harder against him, getting more comfortable from the sound of it. Harry sighs.

He makes sure the coat is secure enough over Eggsy's shoulders so that it won't fall when he's above ground. Harry manages to coax him, arms going around his torso. Without further prompting, Eggsy sleepily wraps his own over Harry's shoulders, just like that. As Harry slowly stands, Eggsy's legs follow to wrap around his waist, and Harry moves an arm from the boy's torso down to support his thighs.

It's not an easy endeavour. As much as Harry refers to him as a boy, as a child, he really isn't anymore. There's no greater evidence than how heavy he is and how large he's grown.

But Harry's suffered worse in the field. He can take it.

The boy sniffles against his neck, face tucked in close. It's safe to say it takes him awhile to get there, slow and almost leisurely in his walk. Harry doesn't know if it's because he's heavy or because he doesn't want to wake him.

Either way, it is prolonging the inevitable.

When they arrive to the spot, Quinlan is waiting, arms crossed.

Harry has a vision of dropping Eggsy in reaction, but instead he clings to him harder under the cover of the coat, fingernails digging into skin through the uniform. Eggsy grunts, blinking himself awake against the curve of Harry's neck if the fluttering feel of eyelashes is anything to go by.

Quinlan holds his gaze steady as the boy in his arms shifts, mumbling.

"Eggsy," Harry says softly against the boy's head.

"Mmm."

"Quinlan's here."

There's a moment of nothing before Eggsy's body stiffens and then squawks from his hold. He almost falls until Harry slowly lets him down.

Harry grabs his coat, hating the way the boy shivers and turns red.

Eggsy clears his throat before turning to his classmate. "Hey Quin."

"Mhm." He still stares at Harry, impassive.

Quinlan's apparent equanimity has always been impressive. Now, it's somewhat nerve-wracking. Bloody Merlin _would_ spawn the anti-christ.

But Harry's an agent for fuck's sake. He can hold his ground. It's not as if he was doing something wrong.

"Quinlan." He nods in greeting.

"Sir." The boy nods back, cold. "Come along, Eggsy."

 

»»

 

Harry is not certain he can meet Eggsy again for the rest of the week.

It isn't as if he was making a habit of it in the first place. More often than not he gets to be there once a week and he has filled that quota already. This time, however, Eggsy is leaving for Barcelona, and he has to see him before he goes. Harry never promised anything, but with how smart the boy is, he's certain he's picked up on the implication.

Unfortunately, he's on a mission that requires him to be in Cuba for five days straight at the very least. It's a stealthy operation that involves masquerading as a Croatian businessman, a torrid affair with someone's wife, stealing intel, and the sabotaging of a certain military technology.

Harry detonates the Kingsman-issued lighter and makes it home in three and a half.

Merlin furiously glares at him throughout the debrief. When it ends, the man sidles up to his side as they walk in the halls, harshly whispering, "What part of _stealthy_ do you have trouble understanding?"

Harry shrugs non-committally.

"Do you have any idea what would happen should the Americans catch wind of who-"

Harry does not have time for this.

"There's a certain officer in MI6 who has a propensity for blowing things up," He reminds him. "I'm certain another one incident added to their proverbial track record would be not be amiss."

"Mmm," Merlin grunts, partially mollified. "How or even why they keep that officer on is a fucking mystery. Because if it were up to me, I swear to all the gods there possibly is..."

Merlin has some unresolved issues with MI6. His fiery reaction is amusing to say the least and Harry is thankful for the distraction. "Maybe they just need a better keeper."

He takes a quick shower in HQ and puts his singed clothes in a bag for Research and Development before changing into fresh ones. Someone always wants to know how their suits stand up to the rigour of the field. He keeps his pants, however. R&D can do without it.

The weather is still terrible when he walks out of the shop and there's a worry that twinges at the back of his mind. Before he goes to Hyde Park, he makes a quick stop to his house to retrieve a package. He leaves his glasses there.

He's aware that he's on the side of being too late as he goes on his way. The chances of Eggsy being there is low. Even if the school let the children out on this weather, rain unpredictable in its variance of downpour, he's cutting it close against the time.

Nevertheless, he has to try.

Harry resorts to using the Kingsman-issued umbrella for its civilian purpose due to the light drizzle. It might seem excessive to use it just for that--the suit is made to withstand bullets for hell's sake, it can stand a little light rain--but it does help appearances.

When he arrives, he sees nothing.

For a moment, he simply stands there, letting the scent of the rain and its sound wash over him and the disappointment he's trying not to acknowledge.

As he turns back, something bangs against the umbrella and he points it to the direction it came from, suddenly on guard, ready to use its numerous features for retaliation. He blinks at the projectile on the ground. It's a branch.

"Where tha hell have ya been?"

Harry looks to see Eggsy up on a tree, shivering and furious.

_Oh, dear boy._

"Eggsy, did you vandalise public property?" He says instead, "Also, have you even learned how to get down from there?"

"Are ya fuckin' kiddin' me?" The boy hisses in fury. "Your dumb arse was late, and that's all ya have to say? And fuckin' no, I haven't learned shit, it's fuckin' freezin'. I'm tryin' to survive up here, cover from th' rain."

Harry leaves the package on the bench with the umbrella shielding it and goes back to Eggsy. "What would you have done if I never came along?"

"Well shit, I dunno, die up here?" He proclaims, sharp and rather dramatic as Harry reaches for him. The boy's face crumbles, barely holding it together. "Why the hell didn't ya call? Are ya sure you have m'number?"

"Eggsy," Harry beckons gently. Eggsy reaches for his hands and jumps down, clinging to him, face hidden in the curve of Harry's neck. There's a snuffle, followed by something much stronger.

"Why didn't you call? Or text? Why don't you ever _anythin_ '? 'Cos I wait for you all week, _everyday_ , and I--" He cuts himself off, distraught and clutching harder. All Harry can do is hold on to him, feeling like he's committed the worst atrocity of all. "Am I a bother is tha' it?"

"No, no you are not," He soothes, words coming without his permission. "You make my day. You're the best part of it. _Shhh_. Darling boy."

There's a _sob_ and it's difficult to set him down on the bench when the boy refuses to let go, but he manages to wait it out and put him there eventually. Eggsy has his head down, hands on his face, trying to settle down. "M'sorry, I had a long day."

Harry hands him the umbrella from the bench to hold and takes off his own coat to put over Eggsy's shoulders. "It's alright." He grabs the package and places it on his lap as he squats down in front of the boy, intending to be eye-level. Squatting in his suit as it lightly rains is probably one of the most ungentlemanly things he'll do all day, but he'll do it if it gets the message across.

"Look at me."

Eggsy shakes his head, embarrassed, a hand still on his face.

"Eggsy," He tries. "Eggsy, do you know why I was late?"

The boy peeks through his fingers and Harry pats the package in front of him. Eggsy slowly takes his hand off, sniffling. His face is red, but even redder are his eyes, tired and tear-stained. Harry feels like a criminal.

"This is for you." Harry places the box on his lap and waits.

Eggsy simply looks confused.

"Go on," Harry urges. The boy rips through the partly damp brown paper to find a layer of thin [cardboard](http://i.imgur.com/jshYfzF.jpg) encompassing a metal box. On the cardboard reads _Nokia 7380_ , and Eggsy appears even more perplexed. "Wha'?"

"Keep going."

Eggsy takes a bit of time in figuring out the schematics of the thing before Harry helps him out, grabbing the umbrella from him and pushing the [metal](http://i.imgur.com/IZz72Nd.jpg) tin out from the side of the cardboard, placing it on top.

"Why the hell are there flowers on it?" Eggsy remarks of the intricate design, face scrunched.

Harry almost rolls his eyes. "Open it."

Eggsy does, and all he can do is stare. "What is this, a glorified [chocolate bar](http://i.imgur.com/DyTck9D.jpg)\--mirror thing?"

Harry huffs and reminds him, "Eggsy, it's a _Nokia_."

It takes him a while, and his eyes go wide. "Oh my god, is this a phone?"

"You mentioned Ms. Roxanne's mobile; This is its successor. I figured you'd prefer the latest version."

"The latest--wait, wha'--why'd you get me this? Oh my god, how much is it?"

"Don't worry about it, a friend was giving them away."

That was the worst lie he's ever told in the history of his existence. From the dubious look sent his way, he's pretty certain Eggsy's caught on. "What was it you said about rich people?" He says instead, hoping he gets it.

Eggsy does, for all his ranting about the wealthy wasting things like they were nothing. He can't seem to touch the device, hands merely hovering.

"Go on."

"But why'd you give it to me then?" Eggsy looks up back at him.

"You're going to Barcelona," Harry starts, going for levity. "You said something about being kidnapped and other _ridiculous_ things. This mobile here, it functions within three-fourths of the world, unlike your previous one which works only in here and most of Europe."

"But Barcelona is Europe." Eggsy stares, uncomprehending, "It's in Spain, innit?"

"Yes, but," Harry gives a little smile, trying not to look like he's too serious lest he scare the boy. "If you do get kidnapped, it doesn't mean they won't move you to somewhere else, say, South America. Human trafficking is pretty active there---I've read on the newspaper," He adds.

Eggsy gawks at him, clearly trying not to laugh.

"This phone, it will work there," Harry continues.

Eggsy picks it up almost reverently, his reflection showing against the shiny chrome. "How the hell could I use this? There's like, one button."

"That's what the manual is for," Harry dryly provides.

"What's with the [flower](http://i.imgur.com/v4xzcPV.jpg) design in the corner?" Eggsy scowls.

Harry does roll his eyes this time. "I don't know, shall I call Nokia Headquarters?"

By his gaping response, Eggsy obviously thinks he's serious. Technically, he can make some calls. This model isn't officially out until October of this year, but Harry has his connections. "I think the flower adds a bit of character, don't you?"

"I'm travelin' with a buncha boys who constantly want to one-up each other. The flower thing might just kill me, Mr. Hart." The boy gives him a pointed look.

"Think of it this way, if they ever find your mobile, they'll want nothing to do with it."

"I already have a mobile," Eggsy frowns, "I can't accept this Mr. Hart. It looks expensive."

"Would you rather I throw it away?"

The boy shoots him a glower. "Don't ya dare."

"What else would I do with it?" Harry blinks, innocent. "Pity, my number's programmed on that. Here, let me take it back."

"Oi!" Eggsy holds on to the whole box in defence. "What do ya mean your number's programmed?"

"Should there be an emergency of some sort, and you can't call anyone else, my number is on speed dial."

The boy stares at him, stunned. He opens his mouth and closes it and again before giving a slow smile. Harry ignores the warmth spreading throughout his body, because while that is nice and all, he can feel his legs starting to hurt from the squatting. He must clock in some time at the HQ gym this weekend if he's not called out to a mission.

"And if I don't get kidnapped?" He looks down at the phone almost worryingly.

Harry pats the boy's head and evades the real question. "Then you'll take some photos with it."

Eggsy swiftly flips the device in his hand and sure enough, there's a camera on it. "Oh my god, what?"

"It's not ideal for messaging with the lack of keys, but I was informed it can play the basic games and also music."

"Like an iPod MP3 player?" He exclaims, excited and properly distracted.

"Yes, Eggsy. Like that." For a moment he simply watches him as his eyes shine and his grin settle into a gentle smile. "Now go on before you get in trouble."

Harry almost offers him his umbrella to take which--Since when did he get so absent-minded?

"I'll walk you there," He says instead.

"Mr. Hart," Eggsy looks him in the eye and slowly moves in, putting his arms around his shoulders and his face to his neck. It takes him a while to realise it's a _hug_. The boy breathes deep and stays silent for a beat. "Thank you."

Harry awkwardly pats his shoulder, and Eggsy pulls back, slightly red. He hopes the boy won't get a fever and ruin his chances of enjoying himself on the trip.

Eggsy clears his throat, "See you next week."

 

\--»

 

His mum is there to see him off at the airport and he worries about the fare to Heathrow because he's conditioned to. Eggsy doesn't say anything about how she's wearing her best clothes. He hates how his mum has to do that. It's not like he asked her to, but the fact that she thought of it, to not embarrass him--

He hates how thankful he is.

He hugs her hard and kisses her on the cheek and his are watering, but he remembers Mr. Hart's words and he puts on a strong front so he won't make her worry. She can do without one thing to worry about this weekend and he hopes she enjoys it.

Eggsy won't lie. He's a bit nervous. It's his first time on a plane alright? At least one that he can remember. The holiday trip to the Caribbean his mum claimed they had always sounded dubious at best.

He clutches on his new mobile hidden inside his inner coat pocket as the plane ascends. After that though, it's fine, and he settles in for his two and a half hour flight. He's a bit miffed at the assigned seating. He can't even see Quinlan at all from where he is.

When they get off the plane though, he can see he ain't quite right. Eggsy quietly sidles up beside him. "You alright, mate?"

Quinlan just closes his eyes, not even shaking his head. Eggsy settles an arm on his elbow, lightly guiding him to wherever they have to be. They sit together at the bus, even letting him take the window seat.

They share a room as requested earlier on, so when Eggsy closes the door, he can hear Quinlan running for the loo, bumping against furniture along the way. His worry multiplies ten-fold when he hears the _retching_.

"Oh my god."

Eggsy goes to follow.

"Don't fucking call anyone, just give me a minute."

There's a moment where it all seems fine. And then it starts again.

Jesus.

Eggsy doesn't know what to do but put a firm hand on his shoulder as his friend shakes.

 

»»

 

"Sorry about that. Aeroplanes and I don't get along very well," says Quinlan in the dead of night in their separate beds.

"S'okay, bruv. Wish ya told me though."

"What ever for?"

"Dunno, woulda gotten you some of tha' anti-motionsickness thing or somewat before."

There's silence and Eggsy thinks that Quinlan's already fallen asleep when it comes.

"You're a good egg, Eggsy."

 

\--»

 

It's Saturday night, local time, and Harry is in the process of dismantling a bomb in Gibraltar. Next to the vials of unknown biochemicals, it's mostly made with the basic components, but the structure is unique. The wires and the placement of each piece by piece is complex as it's supposed to be.

Merlin is a steady voice in his ear when he speaks, but even then there's no definite answer. Most of the time there's only silence.

They've talked about this before. Merlin has already consulted with him during one of their many discussions about certain theoretical situations. For the ones similar to this, he ultimately ends up agreeing with Merlin about how he thinks the stress and the piling confusion of the Merlin Branch shouting over each other, trying to come up with answers, doesn't really help the agent on the field. Despite wanting to know everything, Harry stands by that decision and lets the radio silence wash over him.

One would think that eleven and a half minutes would be enough to find a solution, but it's already down to seven, and Merlin's still working on it. Harry remains calm, of course, still crouching right in front of the active bomb. It's not like it is in the films they show these days. Real life is more complicated.

The red numbers blink at him, taunting.

 

_06:49_

 

_06:48_

 

_06:47_

 

There is a static, and Merlin's voice comes in. His tone is bland, but they've known each other for too long.

"How are you doing, Galahad?"

He takes a few seconds, and decides to go for honesty against the man's well-concealed concern.

"Getting rather bored, Merlin."

He hears a huff of disbelief.

 

_06:33_

 

_06:32_

 

_06:31_

 

Harry looks around, thinking about all the possible ways he can make the impact of the bomb less lethal.

He could throw it in the ocean, a three minute run from here. But then the environmental impact could be devastating. They don't know what's in those vials.

They can evacuate as many people as they possibly can if they send out the order for the alarm. But that is not how they operate. There's a reason for secrecy. If they fail, then it will be dealt with and covered up.

He can pile everything up on the bomb and hope for the best, but that would simply end up in more projectiles when it does indeed detonate.

 

_06:19_

 

The image of Lee Unwin's dead body flashes before him.

 

_06:11_

 

His candidate lays on the floor, eyes open wide, blank, staring at nothing. The Middle Eastern climate is _blazing_ against Harry's skin. It is humid and the air he breathes is _cloying_ \--

 

_05:57_

 

Harry hears a faint noise, drifting in and out of his senses.

_"--ahad? Galahad!"_

_"Harry!"_

_"...your fuckin' vitals are shit, Galahad talk to me!"_

Something **_buzzes_** , right over his heart. It jolts him back to reality, and he gasps a long, quiet drag of air.

Harry's head immediately turns towards the door where outside of it is where the hallway of lifeless bodies are. He makes a move to stand but his knees fail him just as another buzz stuns him. He glances at the timer.

 

_05:37_

 

His hand goes to his chest, instinctual.

"Galahad? Galahad--What the hell was that?" Merlin's voice comes in, stern, but it barely registers to him.

It buzzes again, under his hand, and Harry doesn't know how many more it would take until it stops. He's genuinely worried about it and he doesn't know why.

 

_05:31_

 

"Do you have a solution?" Harry manages, his own voice far away.

He can practically see Merlin closing his mouth when he admits it, "No. Not yet but--"

It buzzes.

It's his _mobile_.

He practically hurts himself in getting it out as it buzzes for what feels like the last time. Without looking, he answers the call.

Harry waits, straining and silent.

"...' _ello?_ "

Harry breathes. "Yes."

" _Yes?_ "

"I'm here."

Harry stands. He makes his way out the door. "Galahad? What--" He takes his glasses off and hangs it on his front coat pocket.

" _Oh. I caught you at a bad time, didn't I?_ "

"What makes you say that?" Harry holds his mobile between his shoulder and the side of his head as he heaves the closest body into the room.

" _Dunno, feels like it._ "

"This isn't an emergency, is it?"

" _Uhm--Sorry, I can go--_ "

"No. It's good," He drops the body beside the bomb. "It's good that you're alright."

 

_05:11_

 

He thinks he can hear the boy is smiling but that's not enough.

"Are you enjoying yourself?" He asks as he goes back out.

" _Oh yeah--hell yeah, we went to all kinds of places._ "

Harry drags two of them by the collar, Eggsy going on about the highlights of his day at his ear, excited and alive.

"That's good."

 

_04:55_

 

" _Mmm. Have you ever been?_ "

"Me?" Harry moves the phone to the other side, feeling his neck getting sore. "Yes. But not the fountain, I believe."

" _Aww, but how? That's like the best part! Man, you're missin' out. Someday, I swear, you've got to see it._ "

He starts grabbing them by the leg, lugging all three of them at once. "Doubt it. Maybe you can convince me."

" _Game! Challenge accepted._ "

Harry repeats the process, running back and forth.

" _Are you...workin' out?_ "

"Yes--technically."

" _M’kay, I’mma just...let you go on._ "

"What else, anything exciting?"

He ends up with nine bodies piled up around the bomb. By then he already knows everything Eggsy ate for the whole day in exaggerated detail.

 

_03:37_

 

His mobile buzzes, and he takes it from its place to glance at it. He puts it back to his ear. "Darling, can you hold?"

"--- _Yeah_."

Merlin blasts through the tiny speakers. "--alahad, what the fucking fuck?"

"Do you have a solution?"

"No, but we're working on it, so stay on the fucking line--"

"Call me if you have something."

**_Beep._ **

 

_03:29_

 

"Hello?"

" _Hi._ "

There's a few more bodies outside but they're much farther away. Harry runs. "What were we on about?"

" _Do you mean my rant about the food or before that when you were actually talkin'?_ "

"Before."

" _The Magic Fountain._ "

"Oh. Yes, right, of course."

" _Yeah, and how I'm game to convince you to come see it someday?_ "

"Right." Harry heaves a body over his shoulder. "Someday."

" _Hey, erm, speaking of games._ "

"Mmm?"

 

_03:15_

 

" _See, I told you I play them sports, yeah?_ "

"Mhm."

Harry drags the last two by the collar as Eggsy stalls. He makes it halfway before carrying one over his shoulder.

" _Well, there's a game--a match, obviously--It's during the last term. Like, I dunno. June-July something?_ "

 

_02:51_

 

"Something? You're going to have to be more specific if I'm taking a holiday off," He unthinkingly says as he runs back for the last one.

" _Is tha' actually a yes?_ "

"It depends."

" _On what?_ "

 

_02:37_

 

Standing before his handiwork, he evaluates the situation once more.

"Isn't it late? You have a long day ahead of you tomorrow."

With the grumbling in his ear, he starts to arrange the bodies much closer over the bomb, intending to leave enough space should re-calibration orders from Merlin Branch come in.

" _Oi. Mr. Hart?_ "

Harry stops.

 

_02:19_

 

"Are we not past formalities by now?"

" _G'night, Harry._ " He can definitely hear the smile. " _I'll bother ya next time_."

 

_02:15_

 

"You're not a bother."

" _I'll show ya all the photos I took, tell ya more 'bout it when we get home._ "

 

_02:09_

 

There's a buzz.

"Just---hold for me, one last time," Harry asks, crouching in front of the bomb and putting his glasses back on.

" _Ugh, okay._ "

**_Beep._ **

"Merlin."

"Galahad," The voice comes stonily.

"I daresay I was getting worried for a moment," Harry aims for levity.

"Get out of there."

"You couldn't tell me that three minutes ago?"

"One of the techs thought they had something."

"And...?"

"They don't." There's a beat before he makes the command. "Get out. _Now_."

 

_01:55_

 

"Is that from Arthur, or from you?"

"...You're literally thirty seconds away from an airport. Hijack a plane if you have to."

 

_01:51_

 

"What's the blast radius?"

"Galahad."

"What is the blast radius?" He enunciates, unwavering.

The rhythm of the keyboard calms his remaining nerves. "Gibraltar is a small territory, but considering where you are, the estimated blast radius would affect about one-fifths of it, and brush off a tiny bit of Spain--"

Harry feels himself tense. "Spain? Elaborate."

 

_01:43_

 

"Just a few miles past the airport."

Despite the situation at hand, he relaxes. Barcelona is six to seven hundred miles away.

"Let's do this. Tell me what to do."

"Galahad."

"Do your job, so that I may do mine. We all knew the risks when we signed up."

 

\--»

 

Eggsy wakes up, startled, one ear hurting. It's only then he realises that he slept with the phone on and---oh god, how long did it go on for? Did he run out of minutes?

He tries to check it and only sees the battery on half life before Quinlan comes out of the shower. Eggsy hides it under the pillows.

"Oh, you're awake."

Eggsy huffs, rubbing his face. "Yeah."

"Well, hurry up then. I want breakfast. I might just leave you behind."

"Oi." He throws a pillow at his direction.

 

»»

 

When Eggsy gets home on Sunday evening, his mum sits him down. It all seems so serious and he's not sure what to expect.

"Have you ever thought about an upgrade?" She starts.

"Wot?"

"This place, this flat we live in."

He stares at her, uncomprehending. It's a really small flat, obviously, it's one of the cheapest in the building. It's old and if you look at anything too close, you know it's ratty, but they can survive in it and paying the rent won't kill them.

"It's alright?"

She gives him a knowing look.

"It's fine, mum."

"Eggsy, I know I haven't given you the best things in life but--"

"Mum, what the hell? You have! Where did this come from?"

"There's a newly renovated flat in the building, And we're not so poor anymore that we have to settle for cold showers in the morning every now and then because there's somethin' wrong with our pipes."

Eggsy follows her train of thought and gets excited despite not wanting to. He really wants to save money. But if his mum says they can afford it--

"Dean says it's a good investment--"

Wait, what? What? _Dean_? How did he get into this conversation?

"Your friend from work?" He hedges.

"Yes. He's good with finances and stuff, that's what he does as a sideline."

"I'm sorry--does _what_ as a sideline?"

"You know, help people with monetary decisions and stuff."

"Out of what? The goodness of his heart?" Eggsy is halfway through a sneer when he sees the look on her face.

"Mum. Mum, I know it's been a while since Da..."

Her face closes off. "He's just a friend, Eggsy. And he's good, okay?"

"But how would you know? How long have you known him?" He presses on. "I want you to be happy, I really do, you deserve all the good things, mum, but..."

 _Not him_. How can he explain it? How can he explain this feeling of dread?

"Look, Eggsy. We're a family, alright? We make decisions together. We can afford this new place. The doors lock, and the tiles aren't grimy and the kitchen is up to par and there's hot water. I want you to think about it."

If Eggsy goes to sleep that night, tossing and turning, trying not to cry and clutching his medal in one hand and his new mobile in the other, no one has to know.

 

»»»

 

Mr. Hart doesn't show up that week. Or the next. Eggsy thinks he's done so well in holding back. He's already messed up once, calling him in the middle of the night when he couldn't sleep in Barcelona.

The embarrassment is enough to tamp down the need. He's thirteen, turning fourteen this year. It's childish. The memory of crying in the man's arms burns him with shame. It shouldn't be like that. He shouldn't be like that.

Eggsy trains for sports and studies under Quinlan's relentless tyranny.

Quinlan also humours him in helping him look for the non-tuition schools all over the place despite his constant reminder of scholarships.

"I think it's too late for tha', Quin."

"You never know. They make exceptions for brilliant cases."

"I'm hardly even close to brilliant," Eggsy grumbles, glaring at the pages of mathematics he's already done. "The fuck is this again? The hell am I doin'? I'm blankin' out."

Quinlan merely takes a passing glance over it. "You have to use the square matrix system for that."

"The what? Like the film?"

The pencil is taken from him in an impatient huff and Quinlan shows him how to do it.

 

»»»

 

By the month of May, Eggsy doesn't go to Hyde Park anymore. He knows he looks disappointed loser every time he comes back because Quinlan gives him these looks. He can't take it.

Quinlan's a good friend. Eggsy almost wants to tell him everything.

He wants to tell him about his doubts. About his own capabilities. About Mr. Hart. About Dean and his mum. Because what if he's wrong? What if Dean is a good guy and Eggsy's just being selfish and making his mum miserable?

Because the more he thinks about it, he barely knows Mr. Hart himself.

But he trusts him like no one else. Even if he hasn't seen him for a month and it makes him petulant and angry.

He knows the man is good on the basis that he's done good things without asking for anything in return. That he occasionally spends his time off from his job to sit in a park with Eggsy, listening, talking or doing their own things comfortably but still together.

Or used to, at least.

He knows the man doesn't owe him shit, and in fact, if he's honest, it's actually the other way around.

Eggsy watches his own reflection from the chrome of his mobile. He still has his previous one, but this is different. He can't find his number, what it actually is, but it's on speed dial. It only shows as **(Private Number)**.

And really he doesn't know what to do with that.

No one knows about this phone. Eggsy's instinct tells him that no one else ever should. How no one's figured it out when he was taking photos with it during his time in Barcelona, he doesn't know. But then again, it doesn't look like a mobile. It looks like a fancy chocolate bar on one side and a mirror on the other. It's weird as hell, and he loves it. He hopes it never breaks.

When he's out with Quinlan one weekend and meets up with Roxanne, it falls out of his pocket. Quinlan only rolls his eyes as he and Roxanne ultimately end up [bonding](http://i.imgur.com/aoedwLX.jpg) over their phones. Whatever, he jelly as fuck.

She's decided to take up the offer from Wellington College, all the way in Berkshire, and Eggsy is sad that she won't get to see her in her glory when they've just started to get to know each other.

Roxanne only laughs and says she'll visit to his pouting face. She's a year younger, but she seems to have it all planned out. She's not like the other posh kids. He can see it from the way she neatly disposes of the crumbs that falls on the table instead of the plate. She's not like his classmates that leave a mess and say something like ' _Leave it for the cleaning people, Unwin, it's their job_.'

"What's so special about Wellington anyway?" He grumbles.

"Well, they have all kinds of sports and most importantly, they have a well-established Combined Cadet Force. There's rarely any of that in London schools."

"What, you plannin' to go into the military or somethin'?" Eggsy exclaims. At this point, Eggsy doesn't really give a shit about his accent and dialect anymore.

"I doubt the Royal Marines will open their gates to females anytime soon," Quinlan cuts through their conversation.

Why he always says shite that gets him a scathing glare, Eggsy never knows. He speaks up for her anyway. "That's what the Army is for, innit?"

Roxanne smiles at him. "Yeah. We'll see."

"Then I think it will be in your interest to know that a Special Reconnaissance Regiment was just established a month ago," Quinlan offers, typing on his mobile. "It will probably be the only Special Forces in the UK that accepts females in the next ten or so years." It's obviously a roundabout apology in his own Quinlan way.

"How do you even know that?" Eggsy asks, bewildered.

"What do they do specifically?" Roxanne perks up.

He gives her a pointed look. "Intelligence and _Reconnaissance_."

"Oh." She frowns, almost deflating. "I wanted something in the field."

Quinlan only shrugs. "It's new and it's classified, so I can't tell you much at the moment. But I'm certain they do operate in the field. There are _rumours_ that they absorbed the _Fourteen Company_."

" _The Int. and Squint?_ " She perks back up, eyes shining, and Quinlan nods. Eggsy just stares back and forth between them. The fuck is this conversation turning into?

"Roxanne, you're like twelve. Chill." And now _he's_ a target of her unforgivable glare. Oh god.

"I'm turning thirteen, and I know what I want to do. I always have." She says, determined.

"And what's that?" Eggsy notices Quinlan's eyebrow raise directed at her.

She sniffs, head held high. "I'm doing what my parents do. And _anyway_ about Wellington, guess what the official colours are?" Roxanne excitedly waits for answers, primarily from Quinlan. She gets none and huffs, " _Black and gold_."

Quinlan just looks done. That was the strongest rolling of eyes Eggsy's ever seen and he's actually worried about the medical state of his eyeballs.

Roxanne focuses on him. "What about you, Gary? Where are you going?"

"Yes, Gary. Tell us where you're going," Quinlan adds in disdain.

"First of all, I'm pretty sure the secret is out. I'm a peasant commoner, and please, call me Eggsy."

"Thank god, I thought I was going to have to keep on pretending." Roxanne laughs and offers a hand. "Call me Roxy, Eggsy."

"Roxy," Eggsy repeats as he shakes her hand, grinning as he lets go. "Nice."

Quinlan smiles in the background, but it disappears immediately the moment Eggsy continues.

"Well, I was gonna go back to Whitefield."

"Hell no," Quinlan interrupts, adamant, "Roxanne, did you know that St. Paul's scholarship entry deadline was on the first of May, and this dumb arse didn't go."

She gasps sharply. "Eggsy."

"Oh come on. I wasn't gonna get in," He grumbles under her gaze.

"You won't know if you don't try," Roxy tells him, stern.

"That's what I said! I've been teaching him all kinds of things these past months," Quinlan complains.

"And I appreciate your efforts, bruv, I do."

But St. Paul's is a bit too far, and honestly he can't stand to be around posh kids any longer and pretend like he has been doing at Wetherby.

"So, any contenders then?" Roxy asks.

"Dunno yet, really. I'm lookin' at funded schools. You know, the ones without tuition for the rest of us peasants."

"Hey," Roxy gets a thoughtful expression on her face and she looks to Quinlan, "There _are_ schools of great quality that don't have hefty tuition fees."

"Well, that's odd, 'cos I haven't seen any." Eggsy retorts. Whitefield by far was the best school he's ever known about of that type and by _best_ he means like two steps above okay and he's pretty sure that's how far schools like that can ever go. It's not like he's aiming for Oxbridge though, but that would really make his mum happy. He thinks he can compromise by going to a good university. Top twenty or top fifty. He thinks he can do it.

_'Anything is possible, Eggsy. Many people have come from worse and have risen much higher.'_

He knows he can. He has to.

A phone rings and Roxy excuses herself, answering it and moving away. "Dad?"

Eggsy notices Quinlan watching her.

"So...what about you, Quin?"

His gaze rests on him.

"What about me?"

"Where ya goin'?"

Quinlan only shrugs, "Whatever looks good on paper, I suppose."

"Yeah, but...is that where you wanna go?" Eggsy asks haltingly.

"We'll see."

 

»»»

 

Eggsy gives in. If his mum says they can afford it, then yeah, why not?

His mum kisses him on the cheek and gets on the phone.

They slowly start packing their stuff, day by day. They're really not in a hurry. It's like three floors up and while he's dedicated to his sports, he ain't lookin' forward to all that work.

Somehow, Quinlan still drags him to study, but it even manages to be worse than before because--

"The fuck is this?" Eggsy asks, gesturing at the open page of the biggest maths book he's ever seen.

"Logarithmic functions," He answers simply, like it's no big deal.

"Bruv...the fuck is this rocket science shite, I'm not made for this."

"You wanna get caught up and pass your tests or _nah_?" Quinlan talking like that with his stern expression is the skeeviest thing ever.

Eggsy gets to work just so he doesn't have to deal with it.

 

»»»

 

The thing is, most of the time when his mum comes home from her job, Eggsy is already by the window, watching.

Because you know, people watching is actually a thing. Mr. Hart told him about it once, going on about the power of observation.

There were times when they would venture out of their secluded area in the park and just look at people. Which sounds creepy but it really wasn't, okay? He's learned some things. Important things.

Like today. He sees Dean taking his mum home. He stays behind when she walks up the stairs, like it's something they've talked about already.

Eggsy's guilt mixes with relief and it's such a weird sensation.

It gets worse when he realises this happens almost every day.

Eggsy wants to tell someone. He knows Quinlan would listen. But he's not the first person he thought of.

In his room, boxes are stacked up against each other. It ain't all done yet, but he's getting there. He continues packing his clothes from the drawer until he gets to the bottom of one. He finds a neatly folded handkerchief, and Eggsy stares at it in wonder before he remembers.

He remembers finding it in his pocket on his way home in the cab, the day he stole from Tesco. He remembers keeping it until the scent of it faded away. He remembers how he decided to wash it carefully by hand. He remembers ironing it and folding it the best he can, just in case.

Just in case.

Eggsy picks it up, and even as he brings it up to his face, he knows the smell of it won't be the same--he _hand-washed_ it for hell's sake. It doesn't stop him though.

Eggsy takes his mobile from under his bed and goes to speed dial.

He holds the phone against his ear, quiet and tense.

It rings. And rings, and rings.

The voice-mail lady comes on and Eggsy drops the call.

He tries again and gets the same result.

This time, he leaves a message.

He opens his mouth and stops.

What the hell? What is he gonna say?

_'Hey, you know that handkerchief you gave me like two years ago, when I was cryin' 'cos I stole from Tesco, and was about to run away so I wouldn't get arrested and shame me mum? I have that. I've been holdin' on to it. And it's clean so don't worry, I hand-washed it myself'?_

"Err," He starts instead. "Mr. Hart."

He momentarily pulls the phone away from himself to sigh.

"Y'know that game I was talkin' about? Well, it was a long time ago so you probably don't remember--You're probably not even interested, really. But. Y'know. It's on the sixth of July. And the seventh. I play twice, 'cos yeah...At ten maybe? Before noon."

He fiddles with the lone thread from his pillowcase.

"It's at Westminster Under. That's who we're against---Did you know their school colour is pink? It's an all boy's school by the way. Hah."

He chuckles, nodding to himself awkwardly.

"Not that pink is bad. Roxy would kill me if she heard. Erm, just in case you're interested. No big deal. No pressure. I know about your job...so..."

Eggsy tries to keep going but nothing comes out of his mouth, no matter how hard he tries. He realises too late that his eyes are watering and his heart is pounding--but he manages to end the call before his breath hitches and that's all that matters.

 

»

 

It's early, early morning on the weekend and he's supposed to be packing more things. Instead, he's experimenting with his mobile, because last night, before he went to bed, he found the option to send an audio text.

Which makes fucking sense because who has the patience to text with a touch dial? He had to look for each letter individually, scrolling around the bloody circle. How Quinlan deals with his iPod all day, he doesn't know.

"...Mr. Hart, what cologne do ya use?" He sleepily mumbles against the mobile. "'Cos it smells good y'know it's jus'....dunno. Is it expensive? It's expensive innit? God, rich people."

He hears himself snore and it wakes him up, twitching.

Christ.

He goes to delete the recording when he realises it's been **_sent_**.

_What the fuck? No. Nononononononono._

Eggsy tries to suffocate himself by hiding under a pillow.

 

»»

 

Nevertheless, Eggsy starts getting a habit. It's almost like his journal writing but more...vocal. It's not like the man's listening. He never called back or even texted. So Eggsy's just...

Eggsy doesn't really know what he's doing.

"My friends took me to look at schools today. The non-tuition ones, of course. Which is weird and really nice, 'cos my friends are rich as hell and they're just helpin' me out, spendin' a whole day with me to try and figure my life out."

Eggsy pauses. He has to tell him.

"They took me to what they called the 'Socialist Eton'. 'Cos it's free but it's amazing--and I'm tellin' you it was the best state school I've ever seen. Quinlan showed me the charts and they ranked pretty high in student scores, _way_ higher than Whitefield. And y'know that matters for uni. I mean I dunno why, but I fell in love with it I guess," He takes a breath, steeling himself.

"And I feel like I'm disappointin' you by tellin’ you this, but I'm goin' for it. Maybe it's because all you talked about were posh schools me and my mum couldn't afford, but they take in-year admissions if there's a spot. It's perfect for me. Holland Park School's the name."

Eggsy huffs a laugh, trying not to feel like---See, that's the thing with playing sports; You have to be constantly hydrated. And when you're constantly hydrated the eyes water alot, Eggsy thinks.

"And ya know what--their uniforms, their ties, it kinda looks like the one you always wear."

 

»»»

 

It's the sixth of July and Eggsy accidentally tackles a Westminster boy _after_ the game.

Accidentally, because he tripped and he was trying to hold on to something but that something turned out to be a human being and--

The boy's eyes are wet and oh god, no. He's gonna get arrested for assault.

"Oh god, no please, I'm so sorry, mate, it was an accident," Eggsy hastily tries to explain, extremely sincere.

He tries to help him up, but another boy gets in the way, glaring at him. "What the _hell_ are you doing?"

That's gotta be the poshest, most aggravating voice he's ever heard, which, glancing down at crest on his jumper, it makes sense. This other boy-- probably his brother with the way they eerily look alike--goes to _Eton_. Eggsy feels his hackles rising in defence. Could this day get any worse?

"S'okay Charlie, he didn't mean to," The boy says.

And this Charlie whips his head back to the boy, still angry. "Why the hell are you crying anyway, Alex? Can't handle a little fall, can you?"

"I'm not crying! And if you don't stop being mean, I'm telling mother!"

Jesus, Eggsy wants no part of this. He feels Quinlan by his side, frowning and lightly pulling at his elbow.

"Come on, there's a Robotics and Gaming workshop at Imperial College. You promised." Quinlan whispers.

"Yeah, yeah," Eggsy says to him, distracted. He goes straight for it. "Alex, is it? I'm sorry again."

He offers his hand as a sign of peace but Charlie smacks it and gets all up on his face. Eggsy is ready to fight; He's just won a game and the adrenaline is still rushing through his veins and he wants to deck this posh bastard in the face 'cos what the flying _fuck_ is this guy's problem?

"Eggsy, no." Quinlan's holding him back and Alex is doing the same for his brother, "Christ, Charlie, stop it!"

"Eggsy, think about your mum," Quinlan says quietly, gritting through his teeth.

He pulls back first, breathing harshly.

"I'm sorry about my brother!" Alex says, dragging Charlie away.

Fuck. Jesus.

 

»

 

It's early morning on the seventh of July and he's getting ready for the game.

When he gets there at nine thirty, it's cancelled.

There's a series of bombings all over London.

By ten, the Underground system is shut down.

By eleven, twenty people are confirmed dead.

 

 


	9. 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What happened to Harry?  
> 2005-2007

 

Harry wakes up but doesn't open his eyes. The smell of medical makes him feel physically ill. On the other hand, it could easily be just the muscle atrophy. That doesn't account for the oncoming headache made worse by the beeping of the monitors however, therefore it must be several things.

He attempts to move each part of his body, simply trying to get a sense of them. It's weak, but it's all there.

There's a sound of scratching against paper and Harry lets himself blink his eyes open, a nearly painful act. Everything is bleary at first, and the moment he tries to speak, a straw is slid in through his slightly open mouth. It's instinctual, and he doesn't know how thirsty he actually is until the straw is gone.

"Galahad," A familiar voice comes through.

"Mer..." He slurs.

"Ah, so you do remember. The basics, at the very least. Good. Less complications, less paperwork."

 

»

 

The next time he awakens, Merlin has the decency to tell him the date and time.

It's the end of May.

There's nothing more he wants to do than to get out the moment he hears it, and it must be rather obvious considering Merlin _dares_ him to, mildly threatening.

His face is eerily unreadable when he asks, "To where would you even go, Galahad?"

Harry blinks, uncertain. Because while Merlin has a point---there is something else. Something important.

He lays back on his bed and tries to think, staring into nothing. He's aware that Merlin is watching him, actually waiting for an answer--which is odd in itself, because they both know he doesn't have anyone to go home to.

 

»

 

He wakes up in the middle of the night, a name at the tip of his tongue when he remembers that everything is monitored.

 

»

 

There is a gauze wrapped around his left wrist. He doesn't recall being injured there.

 

»

 

"How long do I have to be here?" He grouses. Merlin doesn't even deign to look at him.

"R&D will be coming in today."

"What the bloody hell for? Those bloodhounds are almost as bad as medical."

"Keeping up with your results. It's not everyday that an agent of ours survives a biochemical attack."

 

«««

 

The bomb didn't _explode_ per se, but it did go off.

He and Merlin managed to recalibrate the schematics of it but that was as far as they got.

It didn't stop the _hissing_ of the biochemical aspect of it, the failsafe.

He made it far out the hallway before he stopped, prompting a string of curses on the other line.

"No. I've been affected. I should be put under quarantine," He managed.

Despite the exit being less than twenty feet away and in his sights, they both knew that protocols must be followed, and so he slid down against the wall and waited.

He pulled out his mobile, having remembered it.

Harry opened his mouth to speak but--nothing. The boy was already asleep.

 

»»»

 

And that's the last thing he recalls.

Quiet breathing from six, seven hundred miles away.

Except for that one snore. He remembers smiling at that one before slipping into unconsciousness.

 

»

 

Arthur visits.

Harry tries to sit up, but the man waves him off. "Nonsense, Galahad."

"Sir."

There's an empty silence that lasts for ten long seconds before the man speaks. "Galahad, you are one of my best agents."

That's not what he was expecting, and he's not quite certain where this will go. Nevertheless, Harry keeps his face impassive on the side of courteous and polite, and nods, waiting.

"Among other things, you are diligent, and I would have expected you to update your personal information, the moment you became _involved_."

Harry is lost, and he lets it show. "Involved?"

The man looks at him, piqued but mostly amused. "Out of all my agents, you are hardly the one to answer a _phone call_ in a middle of a mission. Why, I had expected you to be the last."

His stomach drops but he manages to hold on to his control of his expression. Arthur knows, but not all of it. He can salvage this.

"Sir, with all due respect, I am not involved."

He gets a pointed look, and the man pulls out a tablet, busying himself with it. "What was it you said?"

Harry opens his mouth, confused. How should he know? To what even is he referring to? He needs to be more specific---The speaker comes to life:

" _'What else, anything exciting?'_ " His own voice crackles back at him and there's only the sound of physical exertion until Arthur fast-forwards the audio. "... _'Darling, can you hold?'_ "

His eyes must be wide as it feels because Arthur only chuckles at his expression as the recording plays on.

"Honestly, Galahad. You pick up a _personal_ phone call in a middle of a high stakes mission wherein you're supposed to be _defusing_ a bomb; You're starting to seem like Lancelot and Percival." There's a hint of distaste at the end and Harry tries not to show his hackles rising in defence.

"That is not--" He falters. It must be the drugs. "That's different."

"Oh?"

"It's not...what it appears to be."

This has got to be the most ridiculous of misunderstandings.

"Ah, so it's like that, is it?" Arthur smiles, wooden, obviously not believing him. "Good, good."

He stands, taking his tablet with him as he makes his way to the door.

Harry's mind goes on overdrive, because where is his mobile? Who has it? His mobile is secure and so is Eggsy's, but if the head of an international spy organisation wants it cracked, then they will have it done.

"Oh and," Arthur turns, "No matter how this ends--it could be merely a passing fancy, of course--do update me. On the other hand, I'd like to be invited to the wedding."

Harry is left to stare at the closed door in horror.

 

»

 

"I never knew your face could get so red."

The lie is the first thing he hears when he wakes from his nap. Christ, bloody Merlin. Of course he was watching.

"Bugger off."

"Oh, and here I was, about to take you for a walk outside," Merlin drawls.

Harry opens an eye, gauging his sincerity. "Fine."

 

»

 

Merlin pushes him out on a wheelchair, the sod. Eventually, Harry gets control of it out of sheer stubbornness. His muscles ache within the minute of rolling the wheels himself, but he powers through it regardless.

The grounds of Kingsman Manor is still green as it always have been. The fact that they pay someone to keep it like this despite all the expenses that go into international security is a humorous concept. At least, he thinks Eggsy might think so.

That is, if Eggsy was privy to this whole separate world altogether. Which he isn't.

So that was a strange thought to begin with.

Harry frowns, slowing down. "Merlin?"

"Galahad."

"What..." He means to ask what had happened, more specifically to his mobile, but he decides against it in the end. "...What is the plan?"

"The plan?"

"When can I get out of medical?"

In the space not too far away, they see a bunch of agents running in their sweats, headed towards their direction, jeering and competing.

Merlin frowns at them, "To get back into duty, you have to get fit--"

"I'm fighting fit!" Harry scoffs.

Without too much difficulty, Merlin swivels the wheelchair so that Harry faces him. "Well then, get up."

Harry grips the armrest, propelling himself upward to stand while Merlin crosses his arms, clipboard tucked under the armpit as he walks backwards to evaluate him.

Triumphant in his endeavour, Harry raises an eyebrow.

"You look like a newborn colt, Galahad. Are you even aware you're shaking?" Merlin intones, deeply unimpressed.

Actually, Harry was not aware, but now he is; With the sudden knowledge of it, the strain on his body seems to multiply ten-fold. He's known Merlin for a long time, and the man has seen him in worse states, so he doesn't feel as terrible as he would if it were someone else when he sits back down.

Before anything can be said between them, there's a victorious yell that catches their attention. They turn to see Lancelot running past the grounds' makeshift finish line, heading straight towards them, panting.

"Galahad! It's good to see you up and about," He beams at them. "See, Merls? I told you he was going to be just fine!"

Merlin's legendary glare focuses on Lancelot and Harry can only watch on, amused.

"Unless you are dying, Lancelot, do not call me that."

The man only grins wider.

"How is the family, Lancelot?" Harry inquires politely.

"Oh, you know," Lancelot puffs with pride, "My girl's off to Wellington this Autumn."

Harry frowns. "I was under the impression that she's attending Wycombe Abbey."

"Don't mention it around Perce, he's still sore about it," Lancelot huffs. "But we both know she'll be happier in Wellington. He'll get over it."

Harry will never claim to know anything about parenthood, but he nods on, sincere. "I wish you all the best."

"Thank you--Now go on and get better, there's some interesting intel going around. You might miss all the fun." He waggles his eyebrows.

Harry sends a questioning glance to Merlin who only appears distracted with his clipboard. "When you get near recovery, I shall fill you in on the details."

There's a disapproving click of a tongue.

"Harsh, isn't he?" Lancelot puts a consoling hand on his shoulder. "Well, good luck with that."

The man waves goodbye before running back near the finish line where the rest of the agents have sprawled in exhaustion. Harry watches his retreating form, and not for the first time wonders how it would be if Lee Unwin was the one there.

"Harry."

The use of the first name grabs his attention, but Merlin closes his mouth and turns his gaze back to his clipboard, resolute.

"Your physical therapy starts in two days. You will be monitored and evaluation reports will be released in cycles of two weeks."

 

»»

 

He hasn't worn a suit since his last mission and it feels jarring. There is only the pyjamas for bed, the optional Kingsman robe, and the Kingsman sweats for exercise monogrammed _G.H._ \--His codename and his surname.

In place of the traditional-face luxury watch is a digital one, wrapped over his still-bandaged wrist.

He wonders about that, and reminds himself to sneak a glance over his medical file one of these days.

 

»»

 

Harry doesn't _exactly_  fail the first evaluation cycle. He passes. Barely. Not using your body for almost two months tends to have that effect.

He is, however, allowed to go home. Barely settled in, he pats Mr. Pickle on the head and goes through a routine check for surveillance devices. Finding none, he puts his own pyjamas on for the night, along with his robe. His refrigerator is empty except for the freezer, and he'll make a note to thank Merlin for that later.

When he passes by the towering grandfather clock, he stops to stare at it. It's an antique, expensive and expansive with its rich history. It also has it quirks, like fucking up in doing what it's supposed to do. It has one job and one job only, and the bloody thing can't get it right. He always had to adjust it every two or so weeks because by then it would be thirty minutes ahead of what it actually is. Sometimes he forgets to take care of it, sometimes just leaves it as it is out of spite.

Being gone for two months has made it severely inaccurate, and once again he wonders if he should just get rid of it.

In the grand scheme of things, what he doesn't expect is Merlin at his door around midnight.

Without his glasses.

He passes on straight through the entrance, leaving his coat haphazardly on the coat rack before heading for the bar.

There's a certain kind of dread that numbs Harry when Merlin pulls out an evidence bag with a sim card in it, placing it on the surface between them.

"Anything you have to say?"

He doesn't have to look to know that Merlin's watching him closely. Harry reaches for the hundred year old scotch, hidden behind the other bottles, instead of answering.

"No? Good. I do."

He debates whether or not he deserves some ice in his glass as Merlin continues on, clinical.

"I was first on the scene when the jet landed and they brought in your body, already stabilised."

Harry waits, attempting to build up the courage to drink the blasted scotch.

"Everything on you was taken for testing or proper disposal, being the biochemical hazards that they were."

Merlin takes the bottle of scotch from him and pours it in his own glass, filling it to the brim. Harry takes his chance.

"What does Arthur know?"

"What he thinks he knows is different from what I _do_ know," Merlin says, looking him straight in the eyes. "Your mobile is burnt to ashes. I recommend you find a new one _and_ a new sim card to go along with it--Do attempt to have it secured to the point where even _I_ can't get through the damned thing," He adds.

"Is that even possible?" Harry frowns.

"I doubt it, but you can certainly try. For the sake of my sanity." Merlin downs the scotch, finishing more than half of it in one go. "You are aware---of what this looks like?"

In all honesty, Harry doesn't. Or maybe he doesn't want to see. He would like to argue that it should not be of any importance. They live in a world where nothing is what is seems. Why should this one matter of all things?

"I'm not suggesting anything untoward is going on," Merlin concedes, and it shocks him. "But you can not deny your...attachment."

"Attachment?" He slowly repeats.

"Shall I play the recording?"

Suddenly it comes back to him: _'Darling, can you hold?_ '

Harry feels himself straighten. He was never aware of it. He was rather preoccupied, trying to make the best out of a situation that no one would ever want to be in; The word came out of his mouth without thought.

That worries him. Nearly as much as all this misunderstanding.

But Harry knew even then that the glasses were active and recording, which is why he did everything he could in trying not to give Eggsy away.

If he could go back to change it, switch the term for the boy's name, he unfortunately would not. Of course, he could have done without either of them, but that's not the point.

In his peripherals, he can see Merlin shaking his head.

"Just--keep your distance." Merlin downs the rest of his drink. "And you might want to consider scar removal surgery."

Harry narrows his eyes, half-miffed and half-bewildered. Merlin should know that he doesn't care about such things. If anything, Harry is proud of his scars. It grounds him when he's being reckless, reminding him that if most of his previous injuries were inflicted any deeper or any closer to this amount of centimeter to any direction to this particular organ, it would have killed him. It also makes him daring when he needs to be, knowing he's survived all that and has made it this long.

Merlin merely shoots a pointed glance at Harry's bandaged wrist as he gets off the bar stool. Almost as if he's on autopilot, Harry haltingly takes off the digital watch and slowly removes the gauze, rolling out each layer with growing apprehension.

Harry can only stare. On his wrist is a small set of very faint scars. Every scratch of it is extremely thin and clean, and no one would really notice it in a glance unless they stare at his wrist for a considerable period of time.

It doesn't deny the fact that it's there, upside down but still readable:

_Eggsy_

His fingers brush over it, and back again. He can barely feel the slight, minuscule protrusion.

He suddenly remembers where he is and who with, and he tries to find the words to say. How could he possibly admit he let a civilian, much less a young boy, use a Kingsman-issued _weapon_ \--and even more so, let him write on his bare wrist with it?

Merlin beats him to anything he might have to say.

"You also have voicemails. I had them activated and retrieved along with all information and messages," He announces, putting his coat back on and heading for the door. "They're on the sim card."

Harry makes his way to him. "Merlin."

The man's expression stops him. "You better hope and pray to all the gods you may or may not believe in that Arthur does _not_ know that exists."

He leaves and Harry is left to finish his scotch.

 

»»

 

_"'...Y'know. It's on the sixth of July. And the seventh. I play twice, 'cos yeah...At ten maybe? Before noon...'"_

The voicemail plays on in his home office where he sits with hands linked together in front of him on the desk.

This was sent a week ago and he's only hearing it now. It's halfway through June already, and he doesn't know what to do.

Until he does.

Harry Hart is a man with priorities. He has a job. He loves his job. Kingsman defines him.

He needs to get back in the field. Passing the evaluation is not enough.

 

»»

 

_Keep your distance._

 

»»

 

While Harry does put on cologne, he keeps it to a minimum. Before he puts on his clothes, it's one swipe of a finger at the back of his neck, just under where the collar of his shirt would be.

And occasionally, a dab on his wrists.

When he does put on his clothes, it's another swipe, a wide downward arc over his shirt, right below the collarbones.

And that is all there is to it.

He's been wearing the same one for years. He chose it because of its distinct scent, mildly interesting, but never overpowering and even less so with his light application.

Why the boy seems taken with it, he doesn't know.

 

»»»

 

The very first week of July, his evaluation reports that he's in the same shape he was in pre-Gibraltar.

Harry is not the type to celebrate things relating to himself, but he does appreciate the indulgence of the finer things in life every now and then.

With another butterfly collection on his wall and another bottle of ancient liquor in his bar, he sets out for the shop to get his fitting done.

"Galahad, good to see you back," Percival greets.

"Thank you, Percival." He nods at him and looks around. Nothing has changed much and it makes him feel better. "Fitting room two?"

"Fitting room two."

His measurements are more or less about the same, no big changes here and there. While his old wardrobe still fits, his new suit will be ready in a week.

Finished with the shop, he makes his way to Holland Park.

 

»»»

 

Agents do not have the luxury to choose their missions. When they do, it tends to either be picking the lesser of evils or whichever one you'd like most from a pile of shit you don't want to touch.

Harry has nothing against MI5. Really. It is the sixth of July at four thirty in the morning when he has to physically be in Thames House, masquerading as a political attaché to be briefed thoroughly about speculations and what they call intelligence. Even as he sits down in the conference room, his feet constantly needs to be put in check with its restless urge to tap against the floor.

They finally stop talking at ten a.m. and Harry goes out for an early lunch.

Westminster School privately owns Vincent Square, which is where they hold all the games for all the branches of schools that go under them. Including Westminster Under.

It is approximately point seven miles from MI5 Headquarters and much less than that from where he has chosen to have his meal. Therefore, he wouldn't be at fault if he merely happened to stay and watch a game or two if he passed by. It's not as if it's planned.

He takes his glasses off and stows it away in his inner coat pocket.

When he gets there, it's almost too late. He's there for the last nine minutes of it, but he spots him. He sees the boy on the pitch. At first, he appears to be merely a good team member, passing the ball when he needs to, unselfish, brilliant, and energetic. Near the end, when Wetherby seems like they're about to lose, Eggsy takes charge, changing the course of the game as he clearly motivates his teammates with his veracity and progress.

Harry feels a ridiculous amount of pride as Eggsy scores the winning goal, and he watches as the team circles to cheer and lift the boy over their heads.

They hug him, they thank him, they worship him. As they should.

People are already crowding into clumps. Parents to children, friends to friends, coaches to teams. Some are getting ready to go on about their day.

Harry knows he has to leave. The boy seems to be doing more than just fine. He shouldn't ruin the moment.

It would be better if he had an explanation for his disappearance. It would be better if he could make it clear that he's not terribly disappointed in him for Holland Park. It would be better if he can give him a reason as to why he can't see him again.

It would be better if they have a chance to say goodbye.

He is already by the exit when he gives in. Harry pushes through against the tide of people and tries to look for Eggsy. He searches, and it takes him a while but he spots him far away, getting his gear packed up.

Determined, Harry makes his way to him when--

"Harry."

It is out of place, how that voice says his real name. As much as he hopes otherwise, he turns to see Arthur.

The man is wearing one of his lesser extravagant suits, but no lesser in quality. After all, it is bulletproof. The head of an international spy organisation shouldn't be out and about like this, but he will not be the one to tell him that.

"Sir." It's what Harry can only manage. The people around Arthur glance at him curiously.

"It's Chester, please," He huffs out a chuckle. "I was under the impression you had a _meeting_ to go to. What are you doing here?"

"My meeting ended half an hour ago. I went out for some lunch, passed by, decided to watch the game. I had played here in my youth for Westminster," Harry recounts easily. It is technically not a lie. Why he feels like it is, however, is another story entirely.

He smiles wider for good measure. "What about you, Mr. King?"

There's a curious eyebrow raise but the man answers anyway, introducing him quickly to the people around. "Close family friends, the Heskeths. My godson was in the game. Westminster Under."

"Hmm." Harry nods. He stands there, conflicted. "Well then. I shall make my way back to work, if you don't mind."

"No, not at all."

Eggsy isn't even there at the place he saw him last.

But he swears to be back here tomorrow. He swears.

 

»

 

At zero four thirty, he goes to Vauxhaull this time around for a briefing with MI6. Thankfully, this one ends at eight thirty-five. He takes a quick fifteen minute breakfast and makes it halfway on to Vincent Square when his glasses go haywire.

"There's been an explosion between the tube stations of Liverpool Street and Aldgate," Merlin reports.

Harry is instantly on alert, but doesn't stray from his path. "And? What is happening?"

"The Met has been deployed, MI5 and MI6 are catching up."

Merlin's calm demeanor breaks when he curses a few moments later.

"A train between King's Cross and Russell Square has just been hit."

Harry grits his teeth. "What do you need me to do?"

He can practically already see Vincent Square.

"MI5 has an emergency debrief. Go."

"Fuck." He takes a quick glance around the almost empty park and still doesn't see Eggsy. It doesn't make him feel any better when he circles the square and makes his way to Thames House.

Before he goes in the building, he almost gives in to calling him, but then there's another explosion at Edgeware Road.

Right before nine thirty, the Metronet Tube operator says it’s caused by a type of _power surge_ of all things. It's such a dire situation but Harry rolls his eyes. Of course it doesn't do anything to calm the people down. What were they expecting?

Harry stays for the initial briefing--a couple more reports of an explosion comes in from the British Transport Police. He leaves his glasses on the conference table as he excuses himself to go to the loo.

The phone picks up on its second ring.

" _Hello?_ " The voice is wary. Admittedly, this isn't probably what Merlin intended when he gave Harry his son's number and vice-versa for emergencies.

"Quinlan."

" _Oh._ You _._ " There is so much disdain in the word, but Harry has no time for it.

"Where is Eggsy?"

There's a pause.

"Quinlan." Harry tries to keep his patience.

There's a certain kind of vigilance reminiscent of his father when the boy steadily rambles on. " _Game doesn't start till ten, but he's usually there thirty minutes early so he should be in Vincent Square by now._ "

"Dammit," They both say at the same time.

Quinlan breaks the silence. " _Is this about the attacks?_ "

"Yes," Harry admits. "Tell him to keep off the roads. For now it seems public transportation are the targets."

" _I'm on my way._ "

"No, Quinlan. Your father--"

" _Eggsy's my friend!_ " He seethes, furious.

"You're at home, yes? You're safer there. Call Eggsy, direct him. He'll listen to you."

" _Why don't_ you _do it?_ " He demands.

"Quinlan."

" _You made him sad_ ," Quinlan divulges, harsh and baiting.

It catches him off-guard. He doesn't know what to say to that. Only this:

"Quinlan--Quinlan, keep him safe."

There's a momentary silence before the affirmation comes.

" _...You're an idiot._ "

The line cuts off, and Harry takes a moment before he returns to the conference room.

 

»»

 

MI5 is fucking incompetent. They've had certain people under scrutiny and they let them go unsurveilled, deeming them not to be threats. One of the very same perpetrators of the attacks.

About fifty people are dead and approximately seven hundred have been injured.

The Met is put on the hectic streets and Kingsman becomes more involved, supplying operatives pretending to be a whole range of backup personnel from nowhere when a large chunk of MI5 is threatened with facing an inquiry. MI6 is just as on high alert overseas and on domestic ground as they are.

Why the fucking hell _Harry_ is made one of the main officers of this joint task-force is beyond him. He's never cursed so much in a whole week. He is good with immediate action in the field, not this _waiting_ nonsense.

"Aren't you the liaison for MI6 and Kingsman? Why am _I_ in this position?"

Mycroft gives him a dry look. "Because I say so. There's a reason why I do things, Galahad. You just have to follow orders."

There's a brief moment where Harry indulges in the fantasy of throttling him, but he manages to blink it away with a polite smile.

He makes his way for the door, and the man has the decency to remind him that he has an impromptu meeting in twenty minutes.

Another fucking meeting--Harry almost spits as he turns around. "Pardon?"

"Report to Vauxhall and meet with your counterpart. Officer Bond is just as impatient as you are." The man shrugs, twisting a sweet wrapper open as three phones constantly ring in the background.

Harry takes a moment to breathe before acquiescing, and leaves the room with a mantra in his head.

_I love my job. I love what I do. I love my job._

 

»»»

 

There's another round of attempts at detonations two weeks later, which proves the reign of terror isn't over.

Harry almost jumps out of a window in sheer frustration. It's not like he's the only one. From the looks of Bond, he's not used to staying this stagnant himself.

The bombs fail this time and there are no fatalities, only one injured.

Bond has the fucking honour of chasing the last suspect in Rome while Harry has to attend more meetings.

There's even more speculation that there could be more oncoming attacks, and this is what Harry works on throughout the whole year and a half or so. They search for more connections, more suspects, local and beyond. They pour through intel after intel and watch police raids in progress.

He gets the reprieve of smaller, fast paced missions, courtesy of Merlin--but this is one of his main responsibilities.

Unfortunately, an MI6 section chief has been selling information all along and of course Bond has to go _eliminate_ him, along with the contact. The man finally earns his _double-oh_ designation and it's all so ironic. James Bond as _double-oh-seven_ , just like the franchise. Eggsy would get a kick out of that.

He anonymously sends the boy a new bottle of cologne for his fourteenth and then his fifteenth birthday--sans the price tag. There's no need to give him a fright.

Bond is sent to Madagascar for a slippery bomb maker for hire and follows the trail to the Bahamas and so forth after that.

Harry is left with more bureaucratic shit to deal with.

He's getting a few greys near his temples in such a short amount of time, and he narrows his eyes at Mycroft for it whenever they pass each other.

 

»»»

 

Harry Hart is a busy man.

 

How was he to know about Dean?

 

 


	10. 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And here we go again

**2007**

 

Eggsy is fifteen and his body is sore and tired.

School is done for the day and the week but he has more work to look forward to during the weekend.

His mum has been convinced by Dean that she doesn't need the third job. While Eggsy wants her to take some time off to relax and not stress about it, this means they'll ultimately depend on Dean when something big happens and they need money. And if that time ever comes, he knows it will be over. His mum is already attached, and that's an understatement, but there will be no coming back from that knight in shining armour shite.

Over his dead fucking body.

Dean practically lives with them now with the way he keeps coming over, staying the night and a few days. Why he plays this fucking game, Eggsy swears it's just to mess with him.

Eggsy hates him, body and even soul, if there ever is such a thing.

But his mum loves the man.

Eggsy can't be selfish. She's done everything for him and she deserves a little bit of happiness that she can find. Dean is a two-faced bastard and he knows Eggsy can see through him so he's already stopped trying a long time ago. The man is sweet when his mum is around, but the moment she turns her back--

Eggsy hates him.

The moment this man crosses the line and hurts his mum, he fucking swears--

He knows the time will come, and when it does, he'll be so fucking ready.

"Oi, Jamal! The hell you going? Thought we were going to the pub?"

Jamal smiles, already moving away. "Mate, you ain't even legal and I've got an apprenticeship to apply for."

Eggsy rolls his eyes. It's practically the weekend already. He already has a part-time job next to the _other_ part-time job and his studies. There should be some time for some fun.

But then again, he knows how serious Jamal is about the field he wants to be in, so he decides to let him go. He thinks of calling up Ryan but he's probably having a shag with his girl, and Eggsy doesn't wanna know the details. Out of habit, he loosens his tie and pulls his medal out, wrapping the chain of it under and around his collar.

On his way home, Eggsy can distantly hear his mum's raised voice, near _yelling_. His pace goes on overdrive as he runs up the stairs to get to their unit.

This is it. This is where it all comes to a close. He can finally cut Dean outta their lives before it gets worse than it already is.

The door opens before he can even get to it--

And that's when he sees _him_ again.

Of all the things he was expecting, it wasn't this.

The shock of it and the adrenaline doesn't make a good combination. He ends up pushing him hard against the wall outside their flat, arm pulled back, fist clenched and ready to strike.

He shakes with the strain of holding back.

Through the expensive suit, he can feel the man's body tensing on and off as if he's trying to hold himself back too, but Eggsy is halfway sneering into his face, goading him to try shit---before the man relaxes, surrendering.

It throws him off and they just end up staring at each other until Eggsy steps back. He can't handle the way he's looking at him. It brings back things he had to push deep down so he could move on.

He knows he's being dramatic and stupid. But it is what it is.

Eggsy can hear himself panting as the man straightens his suit.

How fucking dare him, to show up looking all nice and spiffy?

It brings back what he should've asked the moment he saw him.

"The _hell_ are you doin' here?" He growls, and immediately moves towards the door, opening it wider to check in on his mum. "Are you okay? Mum? What--"

He turns back, keeping an eye on him, making sure he's still there. "Mum?"

"I'm fine, Eggsy," She manages, hand on top of a thick file. Still looking distraught, she takes the file and holds it against her chest as she stands and goes to her room.

"Mum," He tries, dropping his rucksack on the floor.

Enraged, he swivels back to where the man waits, closing the door with a slam.

"What the _hell_ did you do?" He corners him against the balcony railing. The man still stares at him for a long moment before he tilts his head.

"Let's talk."

His voice is nothing like his dreams.

 

\--

 

How the boy manages to follow him into a cab going all the way to The Black Prince, almost six miles away, despite his obvious suspicions and distrust--it puzzles him.

Harry was caught off guard earlier on and let himself be pushed against the wall. The sheer strength of him was shocking in addition to his obvious growth since he saw him last. The top of his head reached halfway between the bridge and the tip of Harry's nose, yet he still managed to look threatening as he glared up at him. The slight resentment he was expecting, but not at _that_ level. The violence was new.

And his smell. His smell--he can't quite place it.

He's not really a boy anymore, and that worries him--what has happened since they last met.

Harry decides to be honest this time around.

 

\--

 

When they get to the pub and the man orders his Guinness, he orders the same thing. The staff doesn't even blink an eye, moving on to get their drinks, but there's a raised eyebrow in his direction.

Taking their drinks to the table, Eggsy glares at him from across the booth, arms crossed, daring him to say something.

And he does.

"Aren't you underage?"

People don't usually go against him these days, but then again this man ain't like other people.

"Do I _look_ underage?" Eggsy spits back at him. The man only frowns.

"No."

"Then it don't matter, does it?"

The man purses his lips, and they sit in silence. Eggsy can't help but look at him. He has to. As much as he resents him, he might easily disappear again, and what then?

He's aged quite a bit for less than two years of time. There's a slight greying at the sides of his hair. He looks tired and it almost makes Eggsy soften in shame at his own attitude towards the guy.

But then again, Eggsy's aged quite a bit himself. He rolls his shoulders back, resulting in a slight twinge of discomfort.

"Something wrong?" He actually seems worried.

_You. You're what's wrong. How dare you show up when I've just gotten used to the fact that I was never gonna see you again._

Eggsy continues to stare as the man takes a sip of his drink. It seems to relax him. If such a small sip puts that look on his face, he can't help but wonder what would happen if he drinks it all at once.

"Eggsy?"

He flinches back to reality.

"I heard you quit gymnastics," The man tries.

Eggsy is taken aback. And then he scoffs. What right does he have to ask him this? What right does he have to ask _anything_ about him?

"What were ya doin' at my house?" He questions him in a fit of anger.

And remembering something, he adds to it, even more _enraged_. "--With me mum?"

He wants to lunge at him from across the table. The things he could do to him. This man has _no_ idea.

"I knew your father." The words cut through his thoughts. It throws him off-key but it catches his attention regardless, half-suspicious. Unless his mum gives in to these moments of looking wistful, he never really gets much stories. He was too young when he lost his dad. If it weren't for the photos, he wouldn't even remember his face.

But then--wait...that doesn't make sense.

"Yeah? Prove it," Eggsy challenges.

The man's gaze stays steady against his own before it lowers to his neck and down to his chest, and Eggsy can practically _feel_ it. He doesn't realise his breaths are turning shallow until he hears them.

"That medal..."

"What?" Eggsy feels himself falter in his veracity.

The man shakes his head and seems to steel himself. "What I was doing in your home, your mother asked to keep it between us."

It takes Eggsy a long time to try to make sense of the sentence but even then he gets nothing. Or at least nothing he wants to understand.

"What the fuck? The fuck is this, are ya sayin' yer havin' an affair with me mum?" He escalates, rising from his seat.

The man briefly chokes on his Guinness and dabs his mouth with a handkerchief. "Eggsy, no. I am not-- _Eggsy_."

People are turning in their direction. And he's tempted to yell all sorts of things just to make him look bad. He could do it, he knows he can.

Hands gripping the edge of the table, he sits back down, waiting.

"I respect your mother, and I like to think that I am a man of my word, therefore I will honour our agreement. She will tell you when she is ready. But I assure you, there is nothing of the sort happening."

He stares at him, bewildered. "What the fuck does that even mean? That such bullshit, Mr. Hart, do you even--"

"I thought we were past formalities." There's a touch of humour there. And no-- _Hell no_.

"No," Eggsy asserts, cold. "Not anymore we ain't."

Trying not to look at his expression, Eggsy only manages to drink half of his Guinness before he slams it back down on the table and leaves.

 

\--

 

Back to square one it is, then.

Harry remains in the pub longer than he should before he makes his way to Vauxhall.

He just hopes that rampant alcoholism won't be added to the list of things he has to feel guilty about.

 

 


	11. 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> How bad is it gonna get?  
> (this angst, along with my writing)

**21:11- 23 March 2007, Friday**

 

He's just met a man he hasn't seen for almost two years and all he can do is complain about it.

"Quin. Quinniee. Can you believe this shite?" He slurs into the phone.

There's a long-suffering sigh and Eggsy hates that he can't guilt him with a pout.

_"Eggsy. Don't pout."_

"Wow, amazin'," He gasps, perking up. "You can see that all tha' way from there?"

 _"I know you, Eggsy,"_ He sounds distracted.

"Yeah? Well, how would ya?" Eggsy challenges, petulant. "You're all the way in bumfuck Scotland."

 _"Fife isn't_ bumfuck _, Eggsy,"_ He replies, patient. _"Are you drunk?"_

"...nooo--This is yerrr fault. If your dumb arse didn't try to run away again your Da wouldn't have sent ya there."

 _"Yes, it absolutely was_ not _part of my plan."_

Eggsy can practically hear the eye-roll. He only whines in return.

Quinlan curses at something in the background and goes back to the phone. _"Is there anything else of importance you have to say? I'm trying to earn two joint degrees and a masters in five years."_

That's a fucking feat of a goal. But if anyone can do it, it'd be bloody Quinlan. Eggsy tosses and turns in his bed, grumbling. "Why are ya in such a hurry? Ya know you're already better than the rest of us."

_"You know I'm going to be there for your birthday, right? I promised you. You, me, Roxy, and whoever else you want to be there."_

Eggsy smiles into the pillow. "You're the guvnor, Quinnie."

_"Well, I'm not going to fucking go if you call me that."_

"Aww, c'mon bruv."

_"You've got another set of exams to take this year, you better be ready, Unwin."_

"Tip-top shape, Quinnie, tip-top shape."

 

\--»

 

A man like himself should not have the luxury to follow someone on his rare occasion of a free time.

Harry makes an effort for this man named Dean Baker.

Dean Baker, who has wormed his way into the lives of the Unwin family.

Dean Baker, who has ties to one of London's biggest drug lords.

Dean Baker, who is merely a small fish in the grand scale of things.

A rather very problematic fish. One that requires 'immediate extermination', as Quinlan would put it.

It is almost midnight on Saturday and the man appears to be heading for a dark building from what can be seen through the small binoculars. With the way the light shines through when the door opens for him, it is obviously not closed past its operating hours as it appears to be on the outside.

A street away, Harry considers his options.

 

\--

 

Eggsy refuses to recognise the fact that he's already sweating as he finishes wrapping the long strips of fabric around his hands. It is cold in the changing room and it doesn't help that the benches are metal. He can already hear the noises outside.

The yelling, the chants, and maybe even the booing of the crowd.

He takes deep breaths, head between his knees, before he jumps to stand and jogs in place, swinging his arms along with the twisting of his torso.

The double doors are in front of him and he slows down, taking one last deep breath.

He slowly exhales.

And he feels nothing.

 

\--

 

Harry opts to stay in his hiding place, a good distance away from the building. Yet somehow he feels like he shouldn't be there. Like he should be somewhere else.

In an attempt to stave off the uneasiness and the urge to move, he gives in to a quick, steady rotation of his left wrist. He's starting to think it's a tic of some kind. It's inconveniently restless.

 

\--

 

The pain is constant and almost blinding, but Eggsy goes on with the help of adrenaline, punching left and right, footwork catching up quick against his opponent, abdominal muscles working hard as he swerves to avoid a hit.

His lungs are burning and the sounds of the cheering and the jeering constantly waver; one moment it is muffled and then the next, it's a crescendo of nauseating volume.

Maybe that's 'cos he just got hit on the side of the head, but he's still going so that's all that matters.

He gets paid the minimum, whether he wins or loses.

But really, he likes _winning_.

 

\--

 

Harry comes out of his hiding place, leather-gloved hand clutching his umbrella.

 

-

Eggsy fucking wins, and the new rush of adrenaline at the fact of it momentarily dulls the pain on his body. He raises his arms in victory and the crowd's cheers are _deafening_. Eggsy can't help but grin. He's on fucking fire.

Until, one by one, he sees Dean and his goons in the sea of people.

 

\--

 

The ongoing noise stops him from where he's slowly, stealthily making his way to the building. It seems to be coming from a large number of people.

He's not technically on a mission and it's not as if he's brought his glasses with him either. The umbrella has a GPS chip on it, however, along with a software that records the amount of force it manages to get up to, and what features are used along with a time-stamp to go with it.

If he uses this weapon tonight, someone is bound to notice.

At this moment, he doesn't quite know who the lesser of evils are: Merlin or R&D?

 

\--

 

Eggsy quickly makes his way to the room and opens his locker, dressing as fast as he can and shoving his stuff in his duffel bag. He simultaneously tries to bite off the layers of cloth wrapped around his hand.

He's too busy and focused to hear the doors open.

Eggsy's body slams against the lockers. He can't even finish a grunt before he gets a kick in the stomach and all he can do is curl in pain.

He makes an attempt to rise in a flash, intending for the element of surprise to be on his side--but unfortunately there's only so many times you can call on a high amount of adrenaline in a span of two hours, and he falters, a second too slow.

"Ya think you can just pull one over my eyes and I wouldn't know, boy?" Dean grabs him by the collar and pushes him back down on the floor, face-first.

Eggsy struggles against the foot on the back of his neck, arms and knees scraping against the dirty floor. _Fuck_.

Dean spits down at him. "Ya think you can just _win_?"

He can't help it. He can't help it, but the tears just go, angry hot and burning in shame, because he struggles and struggles against the filthy floor and he can't breathe, just like many times before. And even if he got out of this, he knows there are many more of Dean's goons outside.

"That ain't what we talked about, Muggsy boy!" The foot on his neck moves away, only to go down _hard_ on the side of his face. He cries out in frustrated pain, a low, grating sound ripped out from the depths of his throat. He can taste the blood in his mouth.

It's easier not to fight it. It's better that way but he can't, he can't do it. There are sounds outside the door but they're muffled and he can barely hear them.

He catches a glimpse of one of the goons posted near the door turning back towards it, alert, before it bangs open, hitting him so hard he falls on the ground, knocked out cold. Dean is distracted and Eggsy takes the opportunity to breathe.

"The fuckin' hell are you?"

From his blurry line of sight, he sees a pair of shiny black shoes. Glancing up, he vaguely sees the dark suit and his heart thuds a different type of beat in between the frantic ones as the familiar silhouette becomes more defined.

Dean takes out his knife.

Eggsy tries to get upright and tackle him, but his body doesn't work the way he wants it to, failing him, and he catches a glimpse of some of the goons outside the door. They're trying to stand up, one of them with blood dripping down his head.

Mr. Hart takes a step and hits Dean across the face with a brolly, and sends him to the floor with a quick, hard kick in the stomach. Not a moment later, he twists just in time to avoid a hit from one of the goons, and punches him straight in the face.

Eggsy grapples for Dean's knife, getting it out of the way, and he looks up to see Mr. Hart taking care of the last of them. He can't look away. The man is grace and danger, fluid and lethal in his motions.

Eggsy shivers, trying to catch his breath.

Dean starts to shift, gaining back his bearings, and Eggsy tries to get away, but the man grabs his ankle and he struggles, frantic, aiming to kick him off.

The umbrella comes down on Dean's back, and his hold from Eggsy slips. Eggsy scrambles backwards on the floor until he hits a dead end at the lockers.

Mr. Hart's foot goes down on Dean's shoulder, slowly pushing down harder as he brings the tip of the umbrella against the man's neck. Eggsy stares, trying to steady himself. Mr. Hart looks towards him and stops.

Their eyes lock together.

Eggsy's breath escapes in a deep rush.

 

\--

 

"Can you get on?"

The boy weakly manages to give him an insolent look despite having limped against his side for an eighth of a mile. "The real question is: Ya drive a motorcycle?" He asks, partly astonished. "Wearing tha'? It's a bit outta character innit?"

Harry hands him the helmet, and urges him to get on with a tilt of the head, putting the umbrella back on its designated, customised holding clutch on the motorcycle.

"Wha', ye want me to go on the front?" He slowly gawks, astonished, still holding the thing in his hands.

"You're injured, possibly concussed, I could go on for miles on end not realising you'd already fallen off," Harry replies shortly, adjusting the duffel bag so the bulk of it is high behind him.

"How will we even fit?" Eggsy gets on regardless, wincing. He gives him the helmet, speech starting to get more slurred. "I dun' wanna stain it with blood and sweat."

He doesn't argue and takes the helmet, placing it back in the case, deciding not to wear it himself. He doesn't want to cause any more head injury just in case the boy's head bumps back on it.

"We'll manage," He insists. Harry honestly doubts the [Ducati](http://i.imgur.com/Ikz8Zg0.jpg) was ever intended for two people, but he has to get him out of here and off to safety. They'll make it.

He gets behind him, and it's a tight fit.

"Can you lean over?" He asks, slowly urging him forward until Eggsy's chest and the side of his face is pressed against the crest of the motorcycle. It worries him how pliant he is, and when he glances down to check, the boy is only blinking slowly into nothing, brows slightly furrowed. "Where ye takin' me?"

"I'm taking you home." Harry reaches over for the handles, the front of him pressed against the curve of Eggsy's back. With his lengthy arms and legs, he manages to safely balance the whole thing.

"Mine or yours?" Comes the soft question.

"Eggsy, no. Don't fall asleep. Keep talking." He takes a hand off from the handle and tries to wake him up by running his fingers down through his hair. The glove leaves bloodstains on the nape of his neck instead.

Harry grits his teeth at the sight of it.

He takes his hand away and starts the engine, ready to go.

 

\--

 

Eggsy doesn't like opening his eyes, it makes him feel nauseous. Everything is shaking and near spinning and he doesn't want to deal with it.

One minute he's somewhat comfortable over the humming of an engine, and then the next, he's barely standing, supported by someone.

It takes him a while to realise he's walking up a familiar set of stairs. "Wha'--Wha' we doin'--No..."

"Eggsy, come on, a little further on now."

The loud knocking really annoys him. There's the sound of locks being turned and the door opens and he sees his own mum. He watches her face, watches the confusion and wariness turn into shock and anger.

She makes a grab for Eggsy. "No. _No no no_ , my _baby_."

Next thing he knows he's sat on the sofa, trying to figure out what's happening.

He focuses on his mum's screeching agony. "No! _You_! First, it was my husband! And now, my son?"

What?

Eggsy blinks and he sees his mum going for Mr. Hart, hitting him with all she can. He's never seen her in such a hysterical state.

Eggsy struggles to move.

"Michelle," Mr. Hart is saying, letting her hit his chest. "Michelle, listen to me."

She smacks the man hard on the side of his face, the resounding crack of it loud and cringe worthy.

"No, Mum," Eggsy defends, weak.

She goes to him, kneeling by his side, tears in her eyes. "Baby, my baby Eggsy."

"Michelle."

She turns towards him, seething. "Get out of my house. Get out!"

"Mum, no--it wasn't him."

"Michelle, remember what I told you."

His mum falters in her anger, taken aback, "No. That's not--" Her hands hover over the sides of Eggsy's face, "Eggsy. Baby, who did this? Who?"

Eggsy is ashamed, but he has to, he has to tell her. "...was Dean."

Her face crumbles and she shakes her head, "No. _No_ , that's not--Eggsy."

"Michelle."

"Shut up! Shut up, you---Eggsy, say it's not true. Say it's not true."

"Mum. _Mum_ , it was Dean. Don't you believe me?" The realisation hits him hard. Of course, he's always considered the possibility that she wouldn't believe him, but here, right now, hurt and in pain in their own home, it's too real. Aren't his injuries enough proof?

"Mum, mum...?" He's crying and he only figures it out because the tears sting on the cuts on his face. Lost, he looks to Mr. Hart, and sees the anguish on his expression despite how he stands there, rigid.

"Michelle."

His mum heaves and cries a new wave of tears, kissing Eggsy's forehead. "Baby. My baby boy. I believe you. Of course I do."

Smiling hurts, but he does it anyway.

 

»»

 

The next time he comes to, there's a knock on the door and his mum stops in wiping the dirt and blood off his arms with a damp towel. She looks through the peep-hole, suspicious at first, a broom at the ready in her hand, before she opens it to Mr. Hart who's carrying some sort of briefcase, and some other man who's looking rumpled and barely awake.

Eggsy can barely see and he's so fucking confused about everything.

"Michelle--Mrs. Unwin, this is Inspector Lestrade of the New Scotland Yard."

"Ma'am."

Eggsy is a bit more alert at the mention of a copper at their house.

"I'm sorry, I'll go make some tea," His mum says, busying herself in the kitchen and Eggsy lets his head fall back down on the sofa, giving up.

There is only silence until a hushed whisper comes, "You know this isn't really my division right?"

Eggsy opens an eye to try and peek, not getting much from where he is.

"Should I make it your division?" Mr. Hart says.

The Inspector replies, disgruntled, "I'm not interested in drug dealings, I'm working to be a _detective_ , particularly in homicide."

"Perfect."

The Inspector looks more awake at that, while Eggsy just gets more confused and closes his eyes, trying to get rid of the vertigo.

He hears his mum coming back. "Oh, please, do sit. I'm sorry."

"No worries, Ma'am."

Footsteps get louder as they get led into the living area and Eggsy twitches at the sound of heavy metal against wood. He sees the briefcase Mr. Hart was carrying, now beside the tray of tea on the table.

"Shit, you didn't take him to the hospital? What the hell, Hart?" The Inspector gasps.

"S'not as bad as it looks..." Eggsy slurs in defence.

"Eggsy?" Mr. Hart starts.

He tries to keep his eyes open, feeling his presence near. He sees concern in his expression, up until the man cautiously glances at his mum, almost in permission. She's obviously cagey about him.

"Wha'--?" Eggsy slurs.

"Michelle, do you still have the file?" Mr. Hart asks. And she nods, almost apprehensive. When her gaze rests on Eggsy, she seems determined as she goes for her room. "I'll get it."

In her wake, the Inspector begins, "Hart, honestly get the boy to a hospi--"

"Quiet," Mr. Hart opens the briefcase, revealing tiers and tiers of medical supplies. "I'm a trained professional." He shoots the other man a look, before turning to him. "Now, Eggsy. Tell me, what hurts?"

Eggsy tries to glare. "Everythin'."

He gets a bright light flashing at his face, going left, going right and so forth. "Wha' th' fuh?" He tries to blink it away when it's gone. He feels a bit more awake.

His mum comes out with the thick file he saw her holding just yesterday. Or was it two days ago already? He can't tell. He doesn't know anything anymore.

"Here you go, Inspector."

"Thank you. Have you read this?" He quickly flips through it, skimming, before he goes back to the first page.

"Not all of it..." She admits, holding herself tight.

"That's alright, Ma'am, I assure you."

"Stop callin' me 'Ma'am', I ain't the bloody queen." She bursts out, and sighs apologetically. "I'm sorry. It's Michelle, please."

"Alright, Michelle. If you don't mind, I'm going to ask you some questions. Mr. Hart has already told me what he knows. I just need your side of it. And your son's-"

"Yeah--yes."

Eggsy just keeps staring at Mr. Hart's bare hands, constantly turning over a packet of pills.

"Excuse me," Mr. Hart interrupts. "Do you need to document the boy's injuries or may I..."

He tapers off.

"Well..." The Inspector starts, "When we do catch him, I'm sure you'll want to add this particular assault to his charges, so we'll have to take him to the hospital for proper documentation and--"

Eggsy speaks up. "No."

As much as Eggsy wants to be the one who puts the nail on Dean's fucking coffin, he has the remaining sense to know the fight happened at a place he should never have been in. Formally, he does boxing for sports. Informally, he fights in seedy establishments where people bet on him. Which is pretty illegal shite, he knows, alright? Plus, Mr. Hart's involvement---

" _No_ ," He repeats to the shocked faces around him, persistent.

"Eggsy." His mum sits beside him, bewildered, sad eyes getting watery again. "What?"

"This'll go on me record, yeah, Inspector?" He asks the man, but he ends up meeting Mr. Hart's eyes and he seems to understand as Eggsy goes on, _polite and sorry_. "I was fightin'--or at least tried to--fight for my life. If that goes on me record, wouldn't that affect my job and school prospects?"

"But you're the victim here, it's not your fault. And you're a minor, so..."

"No," He insists. "He pushes drugs around yeah? How long would that get him?"

His mum gasps. "Are you sayin' you knew about this, Eggsy? All along?"

He feels Mr. Hart's gaze on him.

"Mum, he came to me. And he said if I wanted to earn some money, he had somethin' on the side," He recounts, distressed. "Once I knew what it was, at first I said no, of course, but he kept askin' me, and then he said--he said tha' he _wouldn't_ hurt you if I got them drugs in Holland Park."

Everyone's looking at him, but Mr. Hart just hands him two unmarked pills to take and some warm tea to go along with it. "It's a pain reliever," He informs, glancing at his mum.

Is he scared of her or something?

She nods, still distraught and in shock. Eggsy takes the pills, swallowing it down.

"Holland Park?" The Inspector prompts, writing fast on his notepad.

"Yeah, but I heard about the overdoses goin' around some schools. I couldn't do that, I couldn't go on--But that don't mean he don't have other people doin' it for him."

"These people, you know who they are?"

Eggsy gets distracted by the wet towel on his arm and he hisses, "Tha's cold!"

"Good, it'll keep you awake," Mr. Hart replies, cleaning his wounds, surprisingly gentle.

The Inspector interjects. "Oi, evidence."

"The boy said no. We respect his wishes."

Eggsy breath hitches at the underlying steel in his voice, and he makes up for it by fuming, "I ain't bloody twelve, I ain't no _boy_."

"To be honest with you, that's up to your mum," The Inspector says. "You're still a minor."

Eggsy looks to his mum, and she nods stonily. "Whatever he decides for now. We'll talk about it on our own." She puts her hand out for the cloth. "Here, let me have that."

Mr. Hart stops. But he doesn't hand it over.

"I was a Combat Medical Technician in the RAMC--I would like to make sure his wounds aren't infected," He says almost in a rush, voice odd as he grips the towel.

Eggsy watches them stare at each other. The fuck is going on?

The Inspector cuts through the tension. "Well, how about just in case you change your mind? I mean, you have school on Monday, don't you? You wanna go in looking like that?"

Eggsy has a study group set up for the next week, and he hates the idea that he can't be there. Not for the first time, he vaguely entertains the idea of calling Roxy to kill Dean.

"Inspector Lestrade has a point." Mr. Hart frowns.

Eggsy huffs, getting frustrated. "Just--patch me up first so I can get through this and then we'll see. It's not as bad as it looks...just, wipe the blood away and I'll probably look fine."

Lestrade sighs, exasperated, and his mum joins in, pleading. "Eggsy, come on, just the hospital--no evidence documentation. Let's--"

"--No. It doesn't work that way and I want this over with. I don't have them names, but Dean and his goons prolly do."

"His goons? Do you have their names?"

Eggsy winces at the sting on his arm. "The hell?"

Mr. Hart glances up at him, apologetic. "There's something in the cut. I have to get it out." He takes and opens a fresh packet of medical tweezers and--

"Oh hell no, Jesus-- _shit_."

His mum holds his other hand in support. Eggsy tries to continue on, "I don't know their real, full names. I just know Rottweiler and Poodle. I don't know-- _shit, Harry_ \-- _fuck_."

The man abruptly stops, staring at him. Eggsy doesn't fucking flush, alright? He's in fucking pain, and he still hates him. So fuck.

"Sorry. It's done," He murmurs, turning away.

" _Anyway_ , mum, I think you know their names."

"I do?"

"They're his friends, they came over the house a couple of times, once during your birthday, he probably introduced you to them."

His mum takes a shaky breath and stands. "I have a photo album somewhere, let me go find it."

He hates that it had to be like this, that he's ruined her happiness. That she looks sad, and just about done.

Mr. Hart stops in his motions and frowns at the dirty bowl of water. "I'll just go and change this."

"Yeah," Eggsy mumbles. "And get me warm water this time, honestly." He glares at his back.

Inspector Lestrade clears his throat. Eggsy looks at him, questioning. The water turns on in the background.

"So...how do you know each other?"

Eggsy stares. "How do I know who what?" He's figured out what he's asking, but he's stalling for an answer.

It's childish but--Mr. Hart's a touchy subject. Even Quinlan knows it. Eggsy is still bitter about the man and he thinks he always will be in some way. Everything is confusing and he obviously doesn't know him as well as he thought he did, but he still stupidly thinks he's a good man. He fucking hates that he believes this, deep down, and that it won't seem to budge for anything--So far. Which is just fucking ridiculous. He barely knows the guy, and he's just seen him _hurt_ people.

Begrudgingly, he also has to admit that he's saved his arse. More than once.

The water stops running in the background.

"He knew me Da. Old military buddies." Probably. Or not, from the way his mum seems to hate him too.

Lestrade nods, obviously unsatisfied.

Mr. Hart comes back with the bowl. "I can't seem to find any other clean towels."

"Oh, yeah, 'bout that..."

There's a raised eyebrow directed at him, waiting.

"So I didn't do the laundry yet this weekend, can I live?" Eggsy grimaces.

"Not if you have dirty towels, no," He says, sitting back down beside him and searching for something in his own inner coat pocket.

Eggsy grumbles, leaning back further on the sofa. He twitches at the _cold_ on his neck.

"The hell, don't you understand what _warm_ means?" He hisses.

"It has been said that warm water has a larger rate when it comes to bacteria festering," is the only reply he gets.

What the fuck?

"That's a myth, isn't it?" Inspector Lestrade interrupts, looking away from them and frowning at the file on his lap.

Eggsy suddenly remembers they're not alone and it bothers him how easy it was for him to forget. He glances down and realises that Mr. Hart's using a handkerchief to wipe at him. His _own_ handkerchief, coming away with blood and dirt.

"What?" The man asks of his stunned expression. At his lack of answer, Mr. Hart goes back to his medical kit, searching for something. "Look at my finger."

Bright light flashes at his eyes again. "The fuck?"

"You seem fine to me." He frowns.

His mum comes into the room with a small box. "This is it. This is all of them."

 

\--»

 

Harry thanks his foresight for wearing the black suit. The bloodstains aren't too obvious at all, even as he walks into HQ at zero three twenty. No one really notices.

He takes a cold shower to try and calm himself down. All he knew about was the drugs. He didn't know about--

He didn't know.

Harry doesn't recall feeling such _rage_ before. He tries to think about it, and he can not come up with anything close to _this_.

Burning cold and icy hot _fury_.

When he closes his eyes he can almost hear the scream that led him to that room, he can almost see him on the floor, beaten and bleeding.

He only gets angrier, and he tries to tamp it down with the thought that such emotions have no place in the field.

But then this isn't the field is it?

This is _Eggsy_.

This is the ridiculous boy who stole a can of Pringles and planned an escape to Scotland and Northern Ireland because he didn't want to shame his mother when he thought he was going to get arrested for it. This is the ridiculous boy who led him to McDonald's and raised his chicken nuggets in cheers. This is the ridiculous boy who climbed trees and waited for him almost everyday, even in the freezing cold. This is the ridiculous boy who gave him his trust, sleeping by his side on a park bench on a cold day under his coat.

This is the ridiculous boy who deserves all the good things.

This is the ridiculous boy he left to fend for himself.

Harry abruptly turns off the shower and changes into a clean suit, packing up the old one for dry cleaning, writing his agent I.D. Number on the bag. Dropping it off the chute, he makes his way to R&D.

It's a skeleton crew when he gets there, so this should make things easier. He walks around, appearing as if he's meant to be here, doing something important, passing by and glancing at the screens of the computers.

"Oh, Agent Galahad, isn't it?"

Harry tries not to curse, turning around to see a young intern.

"Amelia."

She seems surprised that he knows her name, but he pointedly glances at her I.D. and she catches herself. "Right, well. Just the agent I wanted to see. I was monitoring some data for the weapons, mostly the Rainmakers, and I saw that you had some extreme activity with yours a few hours ago."

It's always the quiet ones.

Harry waits.

"I wasn't aware you were on a mission...?" She tapers off and tries again. "The live dossier didn't mention..."

"No, I was not. I was fighting crime," He articulates, blunt.

She stares at him for a long moment. And the way that she does vaguely reminds him of the way Eggsy used to, when he can't tell if he's being serious or not, trying not to laugh at the same time.

"Right. So it wasn't a malfunction?" Amelia hedges, a twitch at the corner of her lips.

"No," He confirms, face blank.

She gives in to smiling. "Okay, Agent Galahad."

'Okay'? What does that mean?

Amelia makes her way back to her station, except she turns back, remembering something. "Where's your glasses?"

"In my inner coat pocket," Harry says easily, patting at the area on his chest where it would be if he wasn't lying.

There's that little smile again and she's shaking her head. "Okay."

Harry watches her go, perplexed.

 

»»

 

The call comes later that Sunday evening to his actual mobile. Which makes sense, as his glasses are hidden in the desk drawer. It has been the moment he got home.

"Merlin. Aren't you on a holiday?"

_"I'm starting to think you want me gone on purpose."_

Well.

"Nonsense."

_"How is the business at Vauxhall? You should be due for a holiday yourself, seeing as you've captured more suspects just three days ago. Congratulations."_

Harry sighs, and it's loud in his office. He needs sleep. But not as much he needs Dean and his goons eliminated. They weren't in the building when he came back for them. By now they're either hiding all in one place or split up so far it'll take months to find each and every one of them.

_"Harry?"_

"I felt it was premature to arrest them, but they were going to leave the country for Pakistan. Mycroft and MI5 called the shots on that one, left it for the Met to handle," He explains, moving the papers around his desk. Dean's property listings doesn't even reach half a page, but they're all over the place. He doubts that all of them are really owned by the man. He's either a scapegoat and he doesn't know it, or he's holding them for some--

" _Galahad_."

"--Yes?"

_"What are you doing?"_

Harry gets straight to it. "What is this phone call about? Is this about R&D?"

 _"...What about R &D?"_ There's a genuine confusion there, and for a second Harry has a sliver of hope that he won't have to reveal everything after all. Because Merlin tends to check up on R&D at the end of every other week, reviewing their systems and data, just because he's Merlin.

At the thought, the suspicions begin and the anger comes back, seeping through bit by bit. Why didn't they keep tabs on the boy? Did Merlin know _anything,_ anything at all--And he simply didn't tell him?

Harry takes a moment to breathe, unclenching his fists. Now is not the time for accusations.

"Merlin," He starts, and then he goes on to blurt conspiratorially: "I think there's a certain intern who...fancies me."

There's another silence, followed by a cascading volume of laughter.

"Alright, that's enough--It was just a thought--"

The cackling goes on at an alarming rate.

"Merlin..."

 _"Oh gods, is that why they ask for your damaged suits all the time?"_ He barks, still dying. He's honestly never heard him in such a horrifying state.

"What? No, that's for research!" Harry exclaims, affronted.

 _"Research!"_ Merlin squawks, another round of laughter bubbling up from somewhere. _"Research, right. That's why they always question where your pants are, since it isn't in the bag when you hand it over. This makes an incredible amount of sense."_  

"Merlin..." He merely started this line of conversation as a distraction, now it's just getting out of hand. "Don't be ridiculous. She's barely even a year past twenty."

The laughing stops. " _Oh_."

"Yes, _'Oh'_ ," He repeats with distaste. "And I'm not interested."

_"Hmm. Why not?"_

"Because, she's barely even a year past bloody twenty and I'm not interested," He answers, going back to the task at hand, peering through criminal records. Honestly, Inspector Lestrade needs all the help he can get.

 _"Because she's barely a year past twenty? Or you're simply not interested? There's a difference."_ His voice sounds strange, and Harry doesn't trust it one bit.

"Both."

He becomes so focused in going over the files that he doesn't even remember whether or not Merlin has already hung up---Until it comes:

_"You might want to take a chance."_

Harry stops. "Pardon?"

_"You've been dealing with a lot of things, what with this MI6-MI5 collaboration you have going on--"_

"That was Mycroft--"

 _"Yes, but,"_ Merlin pauses. _"I didn't want to tell you this, as to not stress you out even more, but this is a secure line, and I'm confident of my ability to keep it that way, so I will tell you: Arthur has been looking over your files and your activities."_

"What?" Harry is at a loss. "Why?"

He's a good agent and Arthur himself has said that he's one of the best--

 _"I don't believe it's anything too serious."_ Merlin tries to assure him, _"He just--he checks on you more than he should, picking your files out of the others first, looking them over twice before going on to the next one. Asks about you. The little things. Nothing too alarming."_

It's part of Arthur's job to go over things like that, plus he was technically his candidate, so maybe Merlin is mistaken--

 _"He may be still curious about your..._ 'darling' attachment _."_

Harry tenses. "What?"

_"You never did update him on that end."_

"Because it is none of his business, and that was a long time ago," He points out, trying to keep his calm, thoughtlessly running a thumb over his left wrist.

 _"Humour him,"_ Merlin suggests. _"End his curiosity."_

Taken aback, Harry vehemently disagrees. "I am not going to lead a young girl on just to throw him off as if I'm trying to hide something."

_"Aren't you?"_

The question stops him cold, and he can't say anything.

_"No? Why don't you tell him then, Harry?"_

The way he asks it, it's as if he already knows the answer.

Whatever that answer may be, Harry doesn't know.

 

\--»

 

Most people would probably rejoice at the fact that they don't have to go to school. It's already Tuesday and Eggsy's mum has already started to go back to work again a bit reluctantly. The only thing he worries about is that Dean or one of his goons might get to her there. But if they come here at home instead...

See, the thing is, if it's just Dean, he thinks he can take him down. Eggsy's still a bit sore and his injuries are still healing but he's better than he was two days ago.

With the goons around, that just ain't fair.

He waits for the time to go past four in the afternoon and presses the call button.

"Rox, do you know how to put make-up on?" He greets, scowling at his reflection.

_"...Do I want to know?"_

"Probably not," He admits.

 _"Depends. Eyeliner?"_ She asks.

"No." He scrunches his face-- _fuck_ , that hurts.

_"Why not? It's the thing now isn't it, emo bands and the like. Lots of boys I see around wearing those."_

"Just--never mind." He starts putting back his mum's make-up back in the cabinet.

_"What's wrong?"_

"Nothin'," He grumbles, pressing on the big bruise on the side of his face like an idiot. "How are ya?"

_"Fine, been busy. You?"_

"Peachy."

_"...Eggsy, do you want me to come down this weekend?"_

He's stunned at the offer. Roxy is such the fucking best, how is he so lucky? At this rate, Quinlan's gonna lose the Number-One-Best-Friend title.

But--will his injuries fade by the weekend?

"How about next, next, weekend?" He tries, stepping out of the loo.

_"Sorry, I have a competition."_

He makes an effort so the disappointment doesn't taint his tone. "Oh, that's brill! Which one is it this time?"

 _"Combat Cadet Comp in STANTA. All day long, all weekend,"_ She announces with beaming pride.

Damn. She's getting deep into this military shite.

"STANTA? Wow, you ready for it?" He goes on to make sure the locks on the windows are still secure.

_"I will be. I'm taking home the prize or I will die trying."_

"Chill, Rox." He checks under the pillows of the sofa for the knife he had stashed. It's still there. "It's only what, your second year?"

 _"Well, fine. I'll get it before I'm sixteen or I'll die trying,"_ She amends.

"That's our girl-- _wait_ , that's next year."

" _Bleh_."

There's a knock on the door.

His whole body tenses on instinct. His heart rate picks up and he can feel himself breathing faster. He fucking hates it.

_"...Eggsy?"_

"Gotta go, Rox," He says, falling short of being upbeat.

Eggsy shoves the phone back into his pocket and takes the knife from the sofa as he makes his way to the door, quiet. His palms are sweaty.

He doesn't even breathe as he takes a peek through the peep-hole. Eggsy squints, not really believing what he's seeing.

But, shit. He'd know that hair anywhere.

"Fuu..."  He sighs, letting his forehead bump against the door.

Still suspicious, he opens it a fraction, and peers over. "The hell are you doin' here?"

The man only blinks at him.

Like, what the fuck? Who comes to someone's house just to blink at them like they weren't expecting them to be there?

"Are you lost, Mr. Hart?" He mocks.

It seems to snap him out of it, and the man inclines his head at him, polite. "Eggsy, where is your mother?"

Eggsy is taken aback at the dismissal and the _formality_ of him, and it only makes him angrier.

"She's at work," He answers shortly.

Mr. Hart frowns. "Does that mean you're alone? Is that safe?"

He groans, purposely loud and annoyed. "I'm not a fuckin' kid, geez."

Eggsy slams the door on his face and turns to put his back against it, petulant.

He's not over it. He'll never get over it. Probably not until the day he fucking dies. He knows it's dumb, he knows he's being stupid. Quinlan's said so many times, because he can be harsh like that, but in a smart, honest way.

He knows that to Mr. Hart it was probably nothing. He knows that he was probably just the sad kid who got into a fight and stole a can of pringles. The poor kid who didn't have a dad, so of course he'll spend time with him in the park once a week, why not? He was probably just a charity case and it was probably guilt for his Da.

He knows that it probably meant nothing--but it meant a lot to Eggsy and the bastard could have at least fucking called. He gave him a fucking mobile for fuck's sake.

A shaky breath escapes him and he crosses his arms, hand still holding the knife as he slides down the floor.

There's another knock on the door.

"Fuck off!"

For a moment there's only silence, and he absolutely hates how bad he feels at the idea that he's already left.

"Eggsy."

 

\--

 

"Eggsy," Harry tries.

This whole situation affects him more than it should. He knows it's his fault, but how can he keep him safe if Eggsy won't accept his help?

"Eggsy," Harry lowers his pride. " _Please_."

His hand is flat on the door, as if that could do anything. Of course he could easily break it down, even with the chain lock on, but it's the principle of the thing. He can wait here the whole day and the next. Michelle would hardly appreciate finding him at her doorstep again, but he's certain she'd let him in.

There's a noise on the other side, and a few moments later the door opens slightly, and he sees Eggsy once more. The fact that his eyes are a bit wet takes him back to the time when he was late to Hyde Park the very day the boy was leaving for Barcelona, and Harry has the ridiculous urge to put his arms around him. Ridiculous, because he's probably too old for such things. The both of them. The last time Harry put his arms around anyone was when there was only one parachute and he had to sky-dive from a falling plane with an asset--while Eggsy, on the other hand, has most likely grown from it the way most people have by his age.

The door opens wider, revealing the large bruise on the right side of his face along with other injuries. The guilt mixes with an incredible amount of fury, and it leaves him light-headed.

His foot takes a step closer, his hand reaches for his face, but the boy _flinches_ and everything is much worse.

"Tell me what you need," The words leave him, senseless and without permission. "Tell me and I will give it," He hears himself say.

The boys eyes are wide, but there's still a trace of suspicion and doubt--And at that moment Harry would do anything, _anything_ , to make it disappear.

"Then tell me everything. Tell me why you were gone."

Anything but _that_. Because it would mean lying. Harry lies so much already, it's part of his job, but not to him. Not to Eggsy.

Unaware of his plight, the boy continues on, daring and spiteful. "Tell me why you were gone, and why you didn't say _shit_ , not even a fuckin' call, a text, or even a bloody letter. 'Cos I thought you was fuckin' _dead_ , and I hated you for it. I still do--"

"Eggsy--"

"And you're gonna tell me your side of the story, 'cos me mum told me already--I wanna know what happened to me dad. From you."

He knows. Eggsy _knows_ , and he seems more angry at Harry for his disappearing act than getting his father killed. This boy--he is absolutely mind-boggling.

"May I come in?" He asks, still overwhelmed.

"Only if you tell me." Eggsy stares up at him, resolute.

 

 


	12. 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Angst. More hints of Eggsy being subtly manipulative. Buildup for significant scenes and opportunities. Plot devices for Chekhov.
> 
> sub-par writing.

 

If Harry Hart is a tailor, then Eggsy Unwin is the pope's fucking son.

"I'm sorry--what? Are you takin' the piss?" He tries to understand. "And that's why you've been gone?"

"Certain kinds of people all over the world demand the very best," He replies--A bit too carefully if you ask Eggsy. "One could say that Kingsman delivers that work ethic and quality. We're quite sought after."

It's difficult to make much of a face when it literally hurts, so he just stares on, hoping the man gets how much he thinks that's bullshit. He knows there's more to it, because really, why the fuck would a serviceman come back just to be a tailor? He's seen what he's capable of.

But Eggsy decides to let it go for now, because he'll figure it out sooner or later. And when he does--he'll slam this bloody lie back in his face.

Narrowing his eyes, Eggsy takes a cheap shot. "International posh tailoring. And that's why you couldn't call?"

"My mobile didn't work in America." He actually looks apologetic, lips pursed like a kid who didn't get a happy meal. Which just furthers the bullshit meter, really.

"America?" Eggsy parrots in disbelief.

"The land where the poor get poorer and the rich get richer, thus the need for my expertise--I mean, have you ever touched and appraised an American-made suit? Needless to say, the wealthy looks to us for quality."

God, could this guy sound any more of a ponce?

"Guv, I haven't even touched an English-made suit," Eggsy scoffs, before even realising that he actually has, remembering their meetings at the park. He feels irritatingly warm despite himself. "Well okay, touched maybe, but I don't pay attention to that shit, much less _appraise_."

"Oh."

Eggsy squints at that reaction, and then from out of fucking nowhere, he gets a fucking flashback of that one porno he came across the internet once and oh god-- _no no no_ \--because this is how it started, except it was with lingeries instead of suits, and why did he have to remember that at this very moment? Why? This is supposed to be a serious conversation.

He can feel himself flushing like a fucking loser and it's the worst.

Mr. Hart's obviously getting the wrong idea. "It's nothing to be ashamed of. Here," He haltingly offers, leaning towards him and reaching an arm over the armchair where Eggsy's sitting. "Notice the fine details of the tailoring and how it's practically seamless. The stitching here on the underside of the..."

Eggsy can't even do shit but nod and pretend like it's all fucking dandy, just waiting for the heat on his face to go away. "Mhm, yeah," He pats his arm awkwardly. "Nice fabric--and you couldn't contact me with your new mobile in America because...?"

The man pauses, slowly taking his arm back.

"I was mugged by American hooligans, I didn't exactly have the time to transfer numbers over."

"You? _You_ got mugged?" Eggsy mocks. "Oh I'm sorry, did you think this was ' _Twilight_ '? 'Cos I got forced to read that shite by Roxy fuckin' Morton and it ain't for naught, guv--Were you hoping I got concussed to the point where you wouldn't have to deal with me rememberin' and bringin' up the fact that I saw you wipe the floor with Dean and his goons?"

Sitting even straighter on his place on the sofa, he questions, "...' _Twilight_ '?"

"Of all the things in that sentence, of course that's the one you picked up on. If I wasn't physically hurtin' right now I'd be throwin' my arms out in frustration." Despite his bland tone, Eggsy's actually internally screaming, and he hopes that it shows on his expression.

"There are certain things..." Mr. Hart searches for the right words, and starts again. "I was in the army. There are things that you simply never forget. An instinct of sorts."

"The army," Eggsy nods, still in disbelief that this guy was in the service. If he didn't see him kick arse, he wouldn't even consider it. Posh blokes like him in the military usually are officers, ordering people around while their underlings go on snickering about the stick up their arse. But then his Da wouldn't stand for that. At least he wouldn't think so. "--What 'bout me Da? He was a marine. How did you meet?"

The man stiffens, and Eggsy watches him like a hawk.

"Your father, he was...a protegé of sorts," Mr. Hart starts, slow.

"Protegé?"

"He was already in the service, but his station, it didn't leave much room for growth--There was a programme, and we were to choose candidates of the highest calibre--"

"Special ops?" Eggsy can't help but want some more clarifications. He wants to know everything, he wants to know his dad.

The man closes his mouth for a moment before he hedges, "If you want to think of it that way..."

"But you said you were in the RAMC," Eggsy counters, ready to catch him in another lie.

Mr. Hart raises an eyebrow. "That was way back, after university."

"Okay, sorry go on," He grumbles.

"The point is, I saw potential in your father. He was a brilliant serviceman, but he could have been--not better per se, not exactly what I mean, however--What he needed was the opportunity to shine brighter than he was allowed to." He nods, satisfied with his explanation.

"The pay and benefits were higher, that's what he only told my mum," Eggsy adds. It's all his mum ever really knew, that his Da was working hard trying to get a better job, working hard for the both of them--and then they told her he was dead.

"Yes, there was that also," Mr. Hart agrees.

In the silence that follows, Eggsy thoughtlessly fiddles with the knife on the side table between them, fingers pushing lightly on the handle from the sides, causing it to spin. He almost gets lost in it. "How did he die?" He gazes up at him.

The man looks away. "Eggsy."

"Mr. Hart." He waits until their eyes meet again, and he can see him giving in.

"I missed something," He admits. "It was my fault. I should have noticed--"

He's never seen him look even near as sad as he does now, despite how rigid he sits, as if he's ready to be punched in the face. Eggsy can't help but hate him anyway. "How did he die?"

"Eggsy..."

He steels himself, determined. "How did he die, Harry?"

"Your father saved my life. He saved all our lives."

 

\--

 

The silence is stifling and Harry thinks it might be time to leave before he gets told to.

Outside, the sun is starting to go down. It has almost been half an hour and Eggsy hasn't said anything yet. He wouldn't genuinely be surprised if the boy takes the knife between them and use it on him. Harry wouldn't blame him at all.

Regardless, he doesn't leave, waiting for him to say anything. Anything at all.

The type of apprehension he feels is out of place in a civilian setting, and the mere curiosity of it takes the edge off. How in the world is he feeling such nerves here, right now, worse than the ticking of bombs, the duty of facing megalomaniacs, and all other things he has to do in the field?

He halts the train of thoughts and decides to ignore them for now, keeping his composure.

"How did you know I was in the building?"

Harry is taken back by non-sequitur; Of all the things he expected him to say after the admission of guilt, it wasn't this.

"I--"

"How?" The boy's face is blank and it makes him uneasy. It should never be like this.

"I was following Mr. Baker," He hears himself say.

"Why were you following him?" Eggsy asks, not even a beat after he answers.

"Eggsy..."

"That's what you were talkin' about wasn't it? The agreement with me mum. You told her what he was up to, and she didn't want you to tell me."

Harry nods, slow. This boy is too smart for his own good. It's an odd sensation, feeling pride and a sense of foreboding at the same time.

"How did you know about Dean?"

" _Don't_ ," He murmurs.

"Don't what?" The boy challenges.

"Don't ask me any more questions." Harry is certain his own face is already expressionless, but he can hear a slight pleading in his tone, and Eggsy narrows his eyes.

"I thought this is what it was, asking questions to get everything out of the way."

"I don't want to lie to you." _More than I already have._ "Not because I want to, but because I have to."

This is as close as he'll ever get to telling him, he thinks, and Harry has never hoped for anyone to read between the lines as much as he does this very moment. He wants him to understand. He _needs_ him to understand.

The boy stares at him, unwavering, and at the back of his mind, Harry remembers the amnesia dart---

"Okay," Eggsy acquiesces, still staring at his face.

The relief is astounding. "Thank you--"

"Just one more thing."

Harry actually rolls his eyes. Of course it was never going to be that easy. Not with this boy. And so he waits.

"All this time--all this time it wasn't real. It was _never_ real," Eggsy starts, and Harry is baffled. "All this time we kept meeting, in the museum, Tesco, the park--"

"No," He is quick to say, stricken, when it dawns on him. "No."

The boy stares and he realises what he said could be taken the wrong way. He hastily tries to explain.

"The first time--I did sponsor the trip. However, I did not need to be there. I merely happened to pass by and check on it--"

"Just _happened_ to pass by--"

"I had just come from work," Harry tells him. "And it had been a while since I've been to the museum myself, so...that was that."

"And?"

"I heard there was a fight between the students. Imagine my surprise when I found out it was you."

The boy actually manages to look contrite despite the reigning disbelief in his expression.

Harry continues on, soft but firm. "All the times after that, pure coincidence. I promise you."

He holds his gaze, willing him to believe. He doesn't know why this is important, but Eggsy has to believe him.

"Okay," The boy nods. "Alright."

And Harry can't even feel himself relax before it comes:

"I'd like you to leave now."

 _He doesn't believe me_ , it dawns on Harry. The boy stands and makes his way to the door.

"Eggsy..." He tries, following him. How can he make this right?

"You don't have to keep stickin' around," He says, not unkind, and it's worse than the harsh accusations that could ever come his way, "You don't have to be guilty anymore. You've more than repaid your debt. Or whatever it is. You've... _saved_ us." There's a slight distaste that comes across his features at the word, and Eggsy opens the door magnanimously. "You're free, Harry Hart."

At the words, he oddly doesn't feel relief. The boy smiles up at him, but his eyes are flat.

Harry doesn't even have to find an excuse to stay. "Eggsy, you're not safe. Dean and his associates have not yet been caught and," He brings up something he noticed the moment he entered the house, "Your locks aren't even changed--"

"Well, I'll fuckin' work on it," The boy snaps.

"Eggsy--"

"Stop. You ain't the police." He gazes out, looking over the buildings beyond under the setting sun. "Don't gentlemen leave when they're asked?"

There's a beat of silence and they just stand there for a moment.

"At least convince your mother for the safe house option," Harry murmurs, because it's all he can say.

"I'll work on it." The boy nods, still not looking at him.

"Eggsy--"

"Goodbye, Mr. Hart."

Harry steps out, reaching for something in his pocket. He hands over his card and the boy takes it.

"Here, just in case. If you need anything, anything at all--" Harry falters as Eggsy crumples the card with his number on it.

"We ain't your obligation." He throws it over his own shoulder like it's a piece of trash. Eggsy puts a hand out, and Harry haltingly takes it, only touching. "You're a free man, Mr. Hart." The boy shakes his hand. "Goodbye."

Eggsy lets him go, closing the door.

 

\--»

 

Eggsy finds a package by his door the next morning.

He wouldn't put it past Dean and his goons to resort to bombs, but he opens it anyway.

Inside the box are different kinds of doorknobs and various sets of locks.

He can't be as angry as he'd like to be.

 

\--»

 

The boy never calls and Harry works.

Lestrade barely gives him any updates, because there isn't any on his end.

The London CCTV system is massive and Harry pours over them at home when he has the time.

It would be easier to involve Merlin in the hunt, however that would mean revealing everything.

Harry Hart is a free man.

But it doesn't feel that way.

 

\--»

 

Eggsy sneaks out by Thursday just to go to his study group. He has exams to take in less than two months and he ain't falling behind. Plus, while Jamal could be trusted to study on his own, Ryan can't, so he has to literally be there and keep him in line, along with a few other students who are really interested in it.

With a flat peak cap on his head and make-up on his face to cover the bruises, courtesy of youtube link by Roxy, no one cares enough to notice and he gets shit done.

Eggsy ain't Quinlan, but he tries helping out every now and then, here and there. He likes to think he's giving back.

He tries not to think about the crumpled up card under his pillow at home.

 

\--»»

 

The boy never calls.

It's the first week of April and he's in France.

Harry smooth-talks a man into giving him the combination code.

He leaves him tied to the bed, unfucked and knocked out with the stun dart.

Walking around and trying to get a feel for breakfast, he passes by numerous shops along the way, of pastries, souvenirs, vintage items and knick-knacks. Something catches his eye through one of their windows and he stands there for a moment, not forgetting that he's wearing his glasses before moving on.

Before he leaves the country the next day, he wakes up, quiet, and leaves his glasses on its place, turned away on the bedside table as he sneaks out of his hotel room.

 

\--»

 

He's getting back in the swing of things, catching up with school and his mates, working his one part-time job. His injuries are healing but he still can't get too intense with sports, because it'll fucking show.

Eggsy and his mum has been staying over at a friend's place because Inspector Lestrade nags more than a copper properly should.

So when he gets there after school and sees his mum and Mr. Hart seated on the sofa, conversation stopping when he gets in, he has every right to be suspicious. Like, the fuck is this?

"The fuck is this?"

"Language, Eggsy," They both say at the same time. They end up glancing at each other before turning back to him.

And oh no. Hell no.

This shit can't be going on.

"The _hell_ is this?" He bursts out.

His mum answers him with the most insulting excuse of all time. "Just grown-up talk," She says, like Eggsy is five and isn't turning sixteen this year. "Mr. Hart was just leaving."

"Yes, that I was." The man stands, straightening his suit, and gestures to the coffee table before picking up his suitcase. "Do help yourself to some French macarons, I insist."

Eggsy glances at the fancy arse box of pastries before narrowing his eyes at him. "Lemme walk you out."

As they walk outside, the distance between them constantly diminishes--until the moment Eggsy realises he's too close, arms half a feet away from brushing, and takes a step off the side.

And then he forgets; The cycle repeats.

The man glances at him, mildly questioning at Eggsy's silence. Which doesn't last long, obviously.

"What is _wrong_ with you?"

He doesn't even so much as flinch at the outburst. "What is wrong with what?" He asks calmly.

"This!" Eggsy gestures to him and the house behind them getting farther and farther away as they walk on.

"I'm afraid I don't know what you mean."

Eggsy groans. "For fuck's sake, Mr. Hart!"

"You're still going with the 'Mr.'?" He frowns.

"I can go with whatever the hell I want," Eggsy bristles. "And stop hangin' about me mum, honestly, it's weird."

"What do I have to do for you to use my first name?" The man wonders, and oddly enough, it sounds like he's talking to himself.

"Sod off."

"I will be, actually. I won't be in the country for the next few days."

"And?" He prompts, trying not to sound like he gives a damn. Because he doesn't.

"Anything you'd like?"

Eggsy does a double-take. "What?"

Slowing down to a stop, the man opens the flap on his briefcase, putting a hand through. "I was in France the past week." He takes something out and urges him to take it.

Eggsy stares. "It's a book," He says, because he's a fucking idiot. He doesn't know what he's supposed to do with it.

Until he realises it's for him. "Oh, no, I don't read French," He sputters, too stunned to be offended.

"No," The man offers it again, this time taking Eggsy's hand to place it there. "It's a journal."

Mr. Hart's hand is large and fucking warm, and Eggsy doesn't know what to do, only feeling his skin frustratingly cool as he pulls away. And man, what the fuck, why is he having trouble breathing, he didn't sign up for this.

"I don't know whether or not you're still writing your journals. But if you ever find the time, well..." He gives a little smile. It's proprietary and so _polite_ and Eggsy is already starting to feel the anger rising.

Before he can say anything, the man is already walking off and he thinks that it's better this way. As he watches him disappear, a part of Eggsy hopes it's permanent so he can try and get over him again and move on.

The journal is heavy in his hand, catching his attention. The spine of it is hard and its leather is thick and sturdy. His fingers brush against the metal clasp of it, and he realises it's meant to be a lock.

Looking for the key, he finds it between the blank pages with a blank postcard from Paris--and fuck, Eggsy's no expert, but from the feel and the look of the whole thing, like one of those old ancient magical books in them films, he just knows this is expensive as hell. This belongs in a museum of some sort.

He hides it in his rucksack before he gets back to the house.

From the look on her face, his mum is keeping something from him and Eggsy manages to coax out the truth in less than two hours with puppy dog eyes, injury exaggeration, and genuine frustration at the whole situation.

Apparently, one of Dean's goons went to one of his mum's workplace and tried to set it on fire. The police got there too late and they didn't catch him, but they got a sketch as if that helps with anything. Incompetent wankers.

Point is, his mum got fired, even though it wasn't her fucking fault. So now she only has one job.

Eggsy has to step it up.

 

»

 

"-we haven't even got rid of Dean, now this guy comes along," Eggsy complains.

"You really think he has ulterior motives?" Jamal asks.

Ryan cuts through the conversation, "No offence, but can you talk about anything else but this bloke?"

Eggsy balks at the accusation. "Ryan, shit bruv, go back to textin' your girl."

"Well, I wouldn't be if you'd talk about something else for once," He shoots back.

Jamal raises a hand. "Hold up--Is this the ' _Manners Maketh Man_ ' git you went on about when you got slipped that drink back in year ten?"

"No!"

They both stare at him as Eggsy reddens. "Okay, first of all, no one should ever spike someone's drink aight? That shit ain't right--I'm givin' you the chance to own up to it right now--who was it?"

"Mate, it wasn't us." Jamal scrunches his face.

"Aye, honestly that just offensive," Ryan pipes up.

"We wouldn't do that."

"Well, alright," Eggsy takes the opportunity to steer the course of the conversation. "--anyway, it was probably that skinny mean bloke in your year, Jamal, what's his name again? The one with the mole on his upper lip. Danny? Drarry?"

"Oi, Davy's a small time crook with big ambitions, why the hell would he bother with you?" Jamal questions.

Ryan snickers, "Oh no, I remember! You weren't there, bruv, but Eggsy winked at his girl and she practically dropped her knickers!" In a fit of laughter, he rolls over on the floor, mobile forgotten.

Eggsy glares. It really ain't that funny.

"Shit." Jamal face-palms, and come on, that's just unnecessary. "Dammit, Gaz. That winking of yours is like a chronic disease, it's gonna get you in trouble one of these days."

Well, fuck that, trouble is exactly what he's looking for. He blanks out of the conversation, mind going on overdrive as he thinks of the next step to take.

 

»»

 

Davy is such a fucking cliché: Him and his pals all skulking like them bad guys from the telly--except in this reality, they're in someone's mum's basement instead of an abandoned warehouse and Eggsy tries not to laugh.

"So ya want to make some money?" Davy blows smoke in his direction. Fucking wanker.

Eggsy raises an eyebrow. "I'm here, ain't I?"

"You're gonna have to prove yourself, you know that?" He offers him a fag. And first of all that's fucking gross, that just came straight from his mouth, but Eggsy takes a drag anyway, holding back the bile trying to work itself up, and blows the smoke back in his direction. 'Cos fuck him, that's why.

Davy smirks. "Aight, Unwin. We'll see how this'll turn out."

Throughout the next few days, his mum has no luck in finding jobs and he can tell she's getting stressed about it, so he does whatever it takes to prove himself. Small time pick-pocketing, demonstrating his skills, running fast, jumping over walls as Davy and his crew watch on. It's been a while since gymnastics, but some things your body never forgets, just like what Mr. Hart said.

It's all taking a toll on him; his studies, the upcoming exams, his part time job, Davy and his crew, how Eggsy and his mum are gonna pay for the flat they can't even stay in right now because Dean and his goons are still at large.

And then there's Mr. Hart.

He knows he's meeting with his mum at the very least once a week. And it's suspicious as hell. More often than not during her days off, she goes out for 'something' or meeting a 'friend' for lunch.

At first, it occurred to Eggsy that she could be meeting with Dean on the side, who the fuck knows why, people in love are weird, they ain't right on the head.

So he followed her once. And he found his mum and Mr. Hart sitting across from each other in a small cafe and--

It keeps Eggsy up at night

It bothers him. It bothers him a lot.

" _Have you ever thought as to why it bothers you?_ " Quinlan asks, like he's some kind of psychiatrist.

"Well, 'cos first of all, we haven't even caught Dean yet," he starts, annoyed, "And Hart's on the move already, like what the fuck? And is my mum even over Dean? I doubt she's even over my Da, for hell's sake, so why would she meet up with him?"

" _Maybe you've got it all wrong,_ " He says, neutral as ever.

"I better be gettin' this wrong. He's the reason why my Da's gone in the first place--" He adds, scathing. "But what else is this supposed to look like, Quinlan?"

Rubbing his face in frustration, he waits for a reply. Because the thing about Quinlan is that he's smart. Even if his suggestions might initially be wrong, they're on purpose, to make you _think_ \--think about things you've never even thought of before.

" _Eggsy..._ "

There's something about the way he says it, a bit slow and somewhat hesitant. Which should be enough hint. Quinlan is a harsh bloke when he needs to be and--Even the keyboard has stopped clacking in the background. Whatever it is, it's bound to be important.

"What?"

" _Have you ever thought as to why it_ really _makes you upset?_ " The question comes, careful.

There's a beat of silence, and he feels the beginnings of cold sweat starting to prickle all over.

"...What the hell is tha' supposed to mean?"

For some reason, like a switch has been pulled, Eggsy is _burning_ up like he's been caught doing something wrong and it's really, really annoying.

Quinlan only sighs, disapproving.

 

\--»

 

The boy never calls and it's almost May.

Harry is running through the crowded streets of Saudi Arabia. He's flitting in through the maze of street stalls and vendors. He's being shot at, but his whole body stops as he catches a glimpse of something in display.

"--the fuck, Galahad?" Merlin yells in his ear as bullets fly past around him. Harry quickly looks around as he runs again, memorising the area and remembering certain placemarks he needs to know to locate the specific stall later on.

Arthur personally sends him his congratulations for an assignment well done when he gets to HQ. Harry has every right to be suspicious, especially when he’s invited to his office.

"I am sure I have told you this before, Galahad: You're one of the best agents that Kingsman has to offer," Arthur says to him from behind his desk.

"Well," Harry quirks the corner of his mouth. "One might think you're biased. I was your candidate, after all."

"No, no," The man insists. "Truly. Your record speaks for itself."

Harry waits, face neutral. He remembers everything Merlin had said to him during the phone call, and whatever Arthur's intention may be, he thinks it shall ultimately be revealed.

"You've made it this far," Arthur begins. "With the mixture of skill and luck, you have made it here at the age you are now. It's very uncommon for people in this business."

There's a sense of foreboding at the pit of his stomach and Harry doesn't even want to think about where this conversation is going. He also refuses to point out Arthur's age, as that would be simply rude.

But the man seems to get it regardless, dryly chuckling. "I know, I am completely aware that I am an old man myself. Far older. Therefore certain _arrangements_ must be made," He enunciates meaningfully. "You are the most senior agent active on the field. That's quite a feat. You've made some mistakes of course, namely that candidate of yours, no one is perfect. But nevertheless..."

Harry grits his teeth and shifts in his seat. ' _Lee Unwin, that's his name,_ ' he wants to say. ' _He saved my life, along with a few others._ ' Instead, he cuts through the small talk and goes straight for it. "What kind of arrangements?"

"Like, perhaps, who my successor is going to be."

 

»»

 

Harry waits for Michelle at their usual spot in the café. There are no cameras inside, which is rather rare, but that is why he chose it in the first place.

Outside is a different story, but there's considerably less in the area and they both leave and arrive at completely different times, so even if anyone is watching--they probably would not put two and two together.

Unless it's Merlin. But even then Harry can pass it off as a coincidence. It's not like he and Michelle do this often.

First of all, Harry wants the resentment out of the way. How can he get over his guilt if Michelle still hates him for it? Second, she's in a bad place as of right now, and she could use a friend. They still need to find Dean, and Harry needs to keep the Unwins safe.

And if he's being honest, maybe he wants to be a part of their lives.

He wants to be there if something happens, if something goes wrong, if they need help.

Pride is a dangerous thing, but Harry hopes to befriend her to the point where she'll accept his help, and even someday be comfortable in asking for it.

"You and this bloody café," Michelle complains as she sits down across from him. "A fiver for a thing smaller than a biscuit."

"Worry not." He tries to mollify her with a dry smile. "I will be paying, needless to say."

"What is that supposed to mean? And you know what, maybe I don't want you payin'." She crosses her arms, staring straight at him. He can see exactly where Eggsy got it from and he can't quite help it--

"Oi, what's funny? Why are you smiling like a lunatic?" She appears partly concerned and glances around like she's self-conscious about being seen with him.

He clears his throat. "Would you at least like to have some tea before we begin?"

She looks away. "Fine, Ta."

Michelle has been giving him some intel about Dean. Things that could pinpoint where the man could possibly be. She's told him his habits, been trying to remember details, things he's done, things he's said that may have been initially harmless and not alarming whatsoever to hear.

With Kingsman and Arthur looming over his shoulder, he hasn't really had any luck.

"Why hasn't anyone caught him yet?" She tries to be callous, but it only comes out frustrated as she rubs her arms back and forth.

"Do you think he'll hurt you if he sees you again?" Harry asks slowly.

"Why?" She looks at him. "Are you planning to use me as bait?"

"No," He answers, taken aback. He hasn't even considered that--

"Well, you should."

Harry blinks at her.

Michelle gazes back, determined, head held high. "If that's what it takes to catch the man who did that to my baby, you can be sure as hell I'll do it."

Once he gets over the sheer respect and admiration for Michelle Unwin, he briefly considers the idea. Briefly.

Many things can happen in such a scenario, and he will not be risking it.

In his head, he sees Eggsy's face when he tells him that Harry has gotten his mother killed also and--

"Much appreciated, but no thank you," Harry politely declines, sipping his tea. "We'll find another way. The man is bound to slip up soon."

 

\--»

 

The thing is, when Eggsy has the time to wank off, he makes it a priority not to use people he knows in real life. Because he did that once and he couldn't look her in the eye again, so yeah.

Rules.

Rules don't fucking apply when he's asleep and dreaming.

" _What do I have to do for you to use my first name?_ " it echoes, close, as if it's been said right into his ear, deep and sultry as Eggsy wakes, and all he can do is rub against the mattress, sweaty and his breath hitching.

Fuck.

 _Fuck_.

He doesn't know which part he's even angrier at: The fact that this happened in the first place or that he can't remember a fucking thing.

Or maybe the fact that he has to stop what he's doing because this ain't his house and this definitely ain't his bed and he can't be whacking it off here.

Fuck.

As he takes a cold shower as to not wank off to his Da's ex-squaddie who got him killed, he gives in to the suspicion that this may be not the first time this has happened.

Frantically pressing buttons on his mobile, he waits for the call to pick up.

"Quin."

He gets a grunt in reply.

"Quin," He repeats more urgently.

" _The fuck, Unwin, it's arse o'clock,_ " He growls, indignant.

Despite the ongoing curses in French, he'll get over it, Eggsy knows. "How do I remember dreams?"

" _What._ " His voice is flat, without any inflection, and Eggsy would be worried that he broke him, except if he was woken up early just to be asked about dreams, he'd probably re-evaluate life as he knows it.

"You're smart aren't you?" He baits.

" _First of all, I'm offended you even had to ask,_ " He grumbles, a bit snooty about it. " _Second, I'm offended you think you can manipulate me--_ " Eggsy winces, chagrined, " _And third, start with journals._ "

"Journals?"

" _Dream journals. Keep it beside you when you're asleep. Write whatever you remember the moment when you wake up. Make it a habit until it's instinctual._ "

Journals. Dream journals. Hah.

Eggsy scrambles to find his rucksack. It would be ironic to use a fancy old looking expensive thing to write about the very wrong dreams you're having about the person who gave you the bloody thing in the first place.

Quinlan stops in his rambling. " _Can I ask what this is about?_ "

"...no."

There's an exasperated sigh and he continues whipping out knowledge, sounding like he's reading a dictionary. " _...Use present tense if you can. Strong words that will invoke the memory. I recommend you keep it short at first, so you won't be stuck writing the details and forget the rest of the dream while you're at it. It's going to be weird when you read it later on, but once you do it often enough, you'll know what works for you..._ " He sounds more and more drowsy as he goes on.

The leather journal is heavy in Eggsy's hands, and he feels a sick sort of thrill as he runs his fingers over it, thinking it's gonna be a pleasure to fuck him over like this.

"You're the guvnor, Quinnie."

 

»

 

Things doesn't go as planned. Eggsy's too busy and that's his excuse because he lost his nerve as the sun rose up to shine on his depraved ideas and burned him with shame, so the pages are still blank.

Later on, Eggsy has to meet up with Davy and his pals for his verdict.

Following the directions on the text, he gets off at the same stop he would for school, but he gets on different tube line, ending up right at Gloucester Road station, waiting. Looking at the map, it's not too far from their school, southeast of it, and it's gotta be just over a mile. The place is bustling with the crowd, and there are adverts for at least three museums around and there's high vintage buildings and--it's just obviously an expensive place to be in. Eggsy's getting antsy just being here.

He wonders what they're gonna make him do this time.

An arm goes around his shoulder and it's a miracle that he doesn't punch Davy's face on reflex.

"This is it, Unwin. The final test."

Eggsy tries so hard not to roll his eyes at the dramatics.

As they walk him to a street, Davy hands him a shittily drawn map, which is practically just a geographical version of a stick man, roundish squares and harsh lines that ain't even straight.

"Me and the lads, we gon' stay far away, just in case ya fuck up and get yourself in trouble. But know that we'll be watchin'."

That doesn't make sense whatsoever but-- "What am I doin'?"

"You're robbin' a place, silly. That one right there." He points to a short, narrow street that is basically a sharp 'U' of rows of white houses. "We've cased it out more than a few times. The bastard's never home."

"Which one?" Eggsy squints.

"The one at the end, in the middle."

Eggsy nods until he realises everyone's waiting on him. "...right now?"

He turns to him, because the guy can't honestly be serious.

"What? Is that a problem?" Davy goads, and it prompts jeers from his pals.

"No." Eggsy can't even be properly baited and just stares. "But like, in broad daylight?"

'Cos the guy told him to wear tight black clothes for this 'operation'--'' _like a ninja, Unwin, like a ninja_ ''--and that cliché only works when you're doing dodgy shit like this at _night_.

"Yeah?" Davy confirms, bewildered at why this seems to be an issue. "Why? You don't have the bollocks?"

 

\--

 

In his office, Harry awakens at a noise.

He doesn't tend to fall asleep face-first on his desk, but he has been reviewing Dean's financial activities since he arrived home at dawn, trying to look for withdrawals and credit card uses. The floor lamp must have automatically turned off during his slumber as it's dim in the room. The only light source comes through the dark curtains of the balcony in front of him.

There's that sound again, and Harry is immediately alert. Going on pure instinct, he quietly makes his way to grab the umbrella on the opposite wall hung on a rack. He catches a quick glimpse of a shadow through the curtains and he decides to stay where he is, back against the wall.

At first, the doors open slow and cautious. The moment the intruder enters, Harry kicks, aiming to close the doors, and thrusts the umbrella forward until the tip of it is flush against their neck, slightly grazing.

With arms raised high, Eggsy turns to him, breathless, a thin line of sunlight from the crack of the doors on his face and down the rest of his body, stark against his close-fitting black long-sleeved shirt and sweats.

He sees the slow recognition in his eyes, widening bit by bit. But even then it takes Harry a considerable amount of time to let go of his demeanour.

Eggsy, not the field. _Eggsy_.

Harry swings the umbrella away, still watching him, and props it against the wall. He slowly raises his hands, mimicking his surrender. The boy's still in shock, clearly, but his eyes rove down Harry's body, still out of breath, and the air is suddenly stifling.

"Tailor my fuckin' arse," Eggsy manages.

For a moment, Harry thinks he's left the shoulder holsters on and tries not to sigh in relief when he doesn't see it when he looks down at himself.

"I was merely trying to protect myself against an intruder in my own home," He explains, raising an eyebrow.

Eggsy scoffs, still on guard. "That don't explain that bod, guv--" He slowly puts his arms down and Harry does the same, refraining from asking what's wrong with his body. It's not as if he's naked, the scars shouldn't be visible through his shirt. "--I mean, them pecs, the hell--"

"Why were you going to rob my house?" He asks instead, choosing not to comment on that.

"I--rob? Oi. I could have been followin' you home," Eggsy blurts, irate.

"You were surprised when you saw me," Harry easily counters, taking a step to firmly close the doors without looking. "Who are you with?"

"I ain't no grass." He bristles, head held high.

Harry shifts the curtain an inch, aiming to peek through it, but Eggsy immediately corners him against the balcony doors, a hand firmly on his chest. "Don't do that."

"Don't do what?" He doesn't know why his voice is hushed and soft despite the circumstances.

"I--" Eggsy stops, licking his bottom lip. "I need this." He admits it like it's been ripped from him.

They stand there until Eggsy steps back, and Harry slowly regains his breath. It's the moment he realises that Eggsy's wearing the cologne. _Harry's_ cologne.

Something _stirs_ within him at the notion, and he can't quite put his finger on it. He's not sure he wants to.

Downstairs, a few minutes later, he observes him awkwardly drink tea on his sofa and it's all rather surreal. He's never thought he'd ever have the boy in his house at any point whatsoever. Eggsy now knows where he lives and this complicates things. He vaguely considers moving out.

"Look--You won't tell my mum, yeah?" The boy pipes up, knees bouncing in restlessness.

He lets him stew in silence for a moment. Why is this boy so problematic? They haven't even apprehended Dean and now this--

"I have a proposal for you." The moment the words leave Harry's mouth, he knows he's going to regret them.

 

\--

 

"Are you absolutely mad?" Eggsy yells, because honestly what the fuck? "I just broke into your house and you offer me a fuckin' job?" He stares at him, incredulous.

"Yes, well, if you put it that way, it does sound rather...strange."

Against his will, Eggsy is worried for this man's safety. Looking around at the place, he can't even imagine being here for long, much more to stay and fucking dust the bloody creepy things hanging on them walls and clean the place. He just can't help but ask again, "You want me to be your housemaid?"

"No, that's not the term--more of a PA of sorts. Who also does...things that a maid would do," He maintains.

"Do you know the bullshit meter just keeps goin' on and on the more you talk?" Eggsy honestly wonders if the man knows, but he’s only rolling his eyes, and Eggsy asks, "Why me?"

"I would hate for your mother to find out about your activities."

Eggsy tenses, hackles on the rise, voice low when he says, "Are you blackmailing me?"

"No," He denies. "I don't have to. You keep at the path you're on right now and you're going to ruin everything that you've worked hard for. That is because you're bound to get caught."

"Caught?" Eggsy scoffs, despite his stomach churning at the idea. "Do you have any idea what I'm capable of?"

"There's a camera every other street," He points out.

"Well, duh. It's not like I didn't know that." Just because there's a camera, it doesn't mean people can track him down, does it?

The man just watches him, face blank. "Just keep it in mind. I'll make a contract if it makes you feel more comfortable." He turns his back, and starts to make his way up the stairs. It momentarily shocks Eggsy how he simply does that, and he'd be offended at how he doesn't see Eggsy as a threat, but he remembers the night with Dean and his goons and Eggsy just follows him back to his office.

"Your... _friends_ might wonder where you are," Mr. Hart says as he walks behind his desk and opens a drawer.

Eggsy stands in front of the curtained balcony doors, "Well, you might wanna get out of sight when I open these."

He senses the man get closer behind him and god, _fuck_. That dream he had this morning is to fucking blame. It doesn't help how warm he can feel him just from where he is, and how Eggsy now knows what he looks like with his suit jacket off, showing the nice fit of his shirt on his torso, how it pulls over his muscles, and of course, _of course_ , he wonders how it'd feel like if---

"Eggsy."

He doesn't fucking turn ‘cos he ain't ready and his face might be red or sweating and _no_ , alright?

He's not a fucking poof.

Something is slid against his hand, a bit cold and a sheer contrast to Mr. Hart's warm skin that meets his, and it's instinct to close his fingers around it. He has to look down to see---"What?"

"I was out of the country a few days ago. I came across this."

Eggsy turns it in his hands, mesmerised at the curved, sheathed dagger. It's intricate in design, the tiny details are...distracting and it's bit on the heavy side. "You--you saw [_this_](http://i.imgur.com/flEVpwp.jpg), and you--what, thought of me?"

He doesn't sound as mocking as he'd like to be.

"Nonsense," The man denies, and Eggsy thinks he can feel the air he breathes out against his hair near his ear, and his subconscious is gonna have a field day with these no-no dreams--Fucking _shit_. "Either way, you're going to have to convince your co-conspirators you succeeded in your endeavour to rob me."

Eggsy grits his teeth at that, and motions him away out of sight. "Yeah, yeah. Go on, move."

"Do think about my proposal," He says in neutral tone as he leans against the wall next to the doors, like that doesn't do _something_ to Eggsy. The way he looks like he needs a good amount of sleep just doesn't help. The man crosses his arms, shirt pulling tight on certain areas of his torso, and Eggsy briefly considers going to church. "I can have the contract drafted in less than a week."

"I'll---Don't get your hopes up," He grumbles, grip tight on the dagger. Eggsy opens the door, leaving like he did what he came there for just in case Davy and the lads are really watching.

He gets to the meeting place and he doesn't look back, not even once. Davy clamps down on his shoulder, asking what took him so long and Eggsy shrugs, stupidly hoping they won't see the thing in his hand. But of course they do anyway--and they cheer and cheer, welcoming him in their group, promising to make him the money he needs.

He feels sick as the dagger is taken from his grip.

 

 


	13. 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> surPRISE

 

It isn't after the boy has left for at least five minutes that Harry slumps on the wall he's leaning on. He knew it was a bad idea in the first place--However, he stands by it. Even small, petty crimes look bad on record and could ultimately damage Eggsy's prospects. Such activities could also easily escalate into felonies and more serious transgressions, not to mention the physical dangers involved in it.

Harry can't let that happen.

He resigns himself to all the things he has to do to get this right. He leaves his work in his office and goes to bed. He has several matters to prepare when he wakes up.

 

»»

 

When the line finally picks up, there's an exaggerated crabby groan before the irritated hissing comes through, " _I am not your relationship counselor for fuck's sake--_ "

Harry glances over his draft of the employment contract and tries not to scoff and wonder who Quinlan's associates are--and why they come to _him_ for relationship advice of all people.

"It's me," Harry says, clarifying the case of mistaken identity.

" _I know it's you_ ," Quinlan growls.

That doesn't make sense. Regardless, "This call is about Eggsy."

" _Obviously._ "

Harry frowns and gets on to business. "To find Dean, I need a probable cause to go undercover in Holland Park."

There's a silence on the other end, and he squints at his mobile to make sure it didn't cut off.

" _...How does that compute in your mind?_ "

"He has drug mules in the form of underage teenagers." Logging on his laptop, he searches for the files. "Speaking of which, are you aware that your best friend attempted to burgle me? In broad daylight, no less."

" _What?_ "

"Mhm. He seems to have mingled with the wrong sort. I'm sending you a CCTV footage I found from a couple of streets away. You might recognise a few of them."

" _Bloody Unwin._ " The furious tapping of keyboards begin. " _Did he really--You?_ " He sounds somewhat astonished--at which part, Harry's not quite certain.

"It appeared to be pure coincidence."

There's a huff, " _Of course it was. I really shouldn't be even surprised anymore._ "

The comment goes unnoticed as Harry moves on to the more difficult part. "I need your expertise."

While Kingsman training has always included the basics of technology and hacking among other things, Harry has to admit that he needs a bit of brushing up on it. Just a tad. Which is why no matter how ill-advised this alliance is between him and Merlin's son, it must remain.

They do have a common interest in getting Eggsy Unwin out of trouble after all, considering Quinlan was the one to _casually_ bring up Dean to Harry to begin with, catching his interest and hinting at a much deeper problem than what Eggsy was letting on.

". _..Oh?_ " Quinlan sounds mildly interested, but Harry knows better. The boy is like his father in this regard.

"I am standing by a decision I made and I need to put some things in order to do so."

" _Decision._ " Quinlan's tone is dreadfully flat. " _What decision?_ "

"I offered him a job," Harry admits, picking up a pen and circling a clause in the contract for later revision. "He can not go on partaking in these misdemeanours and potential felonies."

" _...A job? And he took it?_ " He asks, sceptical.

"Housekeeping. And no. The point is--" He's cut off by a surprisingly loud laughter and--Harry feels a nauseating sense of déjà vu. Like father, like bloody son.

" _Housekeeping?_ " Quinlan barks, incredulous. " _An unrefined teenage boy from the streets? Housekeeping?_ " He goes on, madly cackling away. Harry tries not to feel offended on Eggsy's behalf.

"The point is, there are parameters that must be set up."

The laughter abruptly stops, replaced by a dangerous false-sweet, melodic inflection. " _Ah. I see. You want me to subliminally manipulate him to say yes--_ "

"No," Harry immediately cuts him off. "Do not-- _no_." He emphasises, firm in a way that has made terrorists pause, long enough for him to shoot twice. "Let him make his own decisions."

" _...Huh._ " Other than sounding almost surprised, Quinlan is completely unaffected. " _Interesting...---So these parameters?_ "

"For if ever he does, indeed, say yes."

" _How bold of you,_ Mr. Hart," He mocks, but Harry is already used to it. " _Eggsy-proofing your home, are we?_ "

He almost recoils at the term. "A daunting task, I realise, when you put it that way. Besides, he already knows where I live. He might rob me again when I'm actually not here--"

There's a snort of agreement at that. " _Probably._ "

"--And on a more serious note: precautions from the organisation."

" _The organisation..._ " Quinlan repeats slowly. " _I've always wanted to ask this, but I felt it wasn't my place--but, you're asking for my help now, so I will: Why can't they know about him?_ "

It's a question Harry never had the courage to think about thoroughly. "Because he has to be safe. And to ensure that, he must be kept separate from--"

" _Duh. You're a dumb arse, try again._ " Quinlan legitimately yawns. " _This is a secure line, if you needed reminding._ "

"No one exactly approved of my choice of his father as my candidate," Harry starts, trying to figure it out himself. "If they know I'm helping Lee Unwin's son in some way..."

" _It would look bad on you,_ " Quinlan interrupts, scathing. " _Woe, a stain upon your reputation._ "

"No--that is not the case--It's an instinct of sorts," He feels ridiculously foolish for discussing this with an eighteen year-old who's five hundred miles away. "Bad things will happen. They can't..." He trails off, trying to stave off all the vivid imagery of the terrible possibilities that could strike.

" _...They can't know._ " Quinlan finishes for him, sounding rather somber. For some reason, he seems to understand now, except--" _Unless, of course, you_ declare _him._ "

The pen slips from Harry's hold and it clatters against the desk, loud and disquieting. "Pardon?"

" _Declare him._ "

"No. That's--That is _reserved_ for--"

" _For what, your non-existent spouse? Your non-existent friend outside of the organisation? Your non-existent child?_ " He prompts, berating. " _Even my father declared me and he's not all that fond, let's be honest._ "

"That's different. You're too close to the situation--"

" _And Eggsy Unwin isn't? Compared to me, who's literally hundreds of miles away?_ "

"That would place him in more danger. That's literally putting his name on a list and if anyone gets their hands on it--"

" _Alright, alright. I have two papers to finish in seven hours, so do stop the excuses, it's a waste of my time. Parameters and precautions--and probable cause. Specify. What do you need? I might just have a network of information gathering in London within my reach._ "

 

\--»

 

Eggsy can't even ask about the dagger and where it's going because Davy's initiation includes a fucking haircut. A fucking haircut--Eggsy still can't believe it. He's pretty sure they were just bullshitting along the way.

He feels self-conscious about it and he already can't wait for the bloody thing to grow back. His mum is shocked at first, but then she honest to god _giggles_ , and says it's cute.

And that's not on, alright? Mum-speak for 'cute', don't really mean cute.

The exams start in less than seven weeks for him and he can't deal with this shit. Uniform regulations will get in the fucking way of him wearing a hat and--He runs his palms over the shorn sides of his head. He stares at the mirror, and uselessly tries to get the short middle section of his hair to get longer and hide the atrocious buzzcut. It's two thousand and seven, not the bloody early twentieth century.

He even resists meeting up with Ryan and Jamal during the weekend because he hasn't figured out a lie to tell yet. This whole thing just makes him think of Mr. Hart's offer, but it doesn't last long, because it's just such a ridiculous scenario. So yes he's got some unresolved issues about Harry Hart, that's true, but he knows it’s all just a one-sided sort of childhood _fixation_ \--the term courtesy of Quinlan's pseudo-psychiatrist advice--and he has to get over that shit, pronto. He can't depend on other people, and he has to stick by the decision he's made and follow through for as long as he can. Even with this damn atrocious haircut.

Needless to say, Eggsy's a bit late when he gets to school on Monday. And by a bit, it's really more than half the class period. But he's still there, okay? So that's what counts. And really, it _is_ the haircut, not the weird dream he had about the tip of an umbrella against his skin 'cos shit.

 _Anyway_ , he makes his way straight into the room, making a beeline for his seat. Slightly panting, Eggsy finally gets to sit down and he looks up to see--

That ain't Miss Faruti.

That's Harry fuckin' Hart staring at him through his _glasses_ from the front centre of the room. In all his glory, but in a normal simple suit this time without them extra buttons, which is just--different. And not in a bad way. A sharp, clean cut suit that still hides what he now fucking knows to be those damn pecs against a crisp white shirt and--

Unless the line between dreams and reality have blurred, he's having a hallucination. In broad fucking daylight--Eggsy's gone mad. And he can only stare back, all his attention in one narrow focus.

Hallucination-Mr. Hart opens his mouth a fraction, and it's in fucking slow motion; it's barely half a second, he knows, deep down in his lizard-brain--but the way the sunlight softly frames the side of his face, almost like a caress--Eggsy could fucking write poetry.

"Do you make a habit of being tardy, Mr...?" Hallucination-Mr. Hart stops himself, cutting their eye contact as he looks down at the paper on the desk. "Unwin?"

His gaze meets his again and Eggsy just keeps on staring.

There's a snicker from somewhere in the room, and the whole world comes crashing back.

Eggsy remembers to _breathe_ , but the first attempt is short and shallow, and he hopes the fucking sound of it wasn't too loud because--fuck.

What the fuck?

Hallucination-Mr. Hart lets out a put-upon sigh before he turns back to the board and picks up the dry-erase marker. "If you weren't late, you would know that your previous teacher is out sick. And that I am your substitute instructor until further notice."

Once Eggsy gets over the sheer width of the man's damn shoulders, he sees it written on the board: 'Mr. Hart'.

It's real. It's fucking real.

Eggsy could yell, Eggsy could scream. But he does nothing and just sits there as the clock goes by and Harry fucking Hart, International Posh 'Tailor', goes on about Shakespeare. This is the same man who beat down a whole gang of criminals with an umbrella, and it doesn't connect.

The bell chimes in through the PA system and the class filters out around him, out of focus. Eggsy flinches at a touch on his shoulder--but it's just Janine with a concerned look on her face. "You gonna be late for chemistry too or what?"

His reflex takes over for him, and he feels the cocky grin on his face as he winks at her. "You and me, we're always gonna have chemistry, Jan'."

"Hell's sake, Eggsy," Janine grumbles, but she fails in trying so hard not to smile as she walks out. There's a brief victorious cheer in having that amount of game, but it instantly disappears when he realises there's no one else in the room and that Mr. Hart glances away the moment he looks up, opening a textbook instead.

Eggsy stands, rucksack in tow, walking until he's at the side of the desk near the door to seethe, low and quiet, "This is some Edward Cullen shite, and this is not okay."

He waits for him to turn his direction, but the man doesn't even have the fucking decency to look at him, or even look at the shit he's writing on the far end of the desk close to Eggsy. He merely slides the folded piece of paper towards him, and flips a page in the textbook with the other hand. "Tardiness will not be tolerated in my class. However, it's only my first day, therefore your after-school detention will only be twenty minutes instead of thirty five minutes--the amount you were actually late for."

Eggsy gapes at him. Which is pretty fucking futile since he's not even looking his fucking way. "Okay, first of all: Nobody ain't got time for that. Second--"

"Would you prefer lunch-detention? I considered it briefly but I didn't want to take away your lunch time."

The man finally turns to him with a mild expression, blinking like he's fucking innocent. Eggsy narrows his eyes at the bastard, ready to shriek obscenities at him--and it must definitely show on his face considering the man starts to look pleading behind the glasses. Which is a weird thing to notice about someone, so Eggsy thinks he might be projecting on that one.

"Fine," He says anyway, begrudging. "I don't care, whatever." He remembers the paper in his hand and starts unfolding it.

"' _Whatever_ '--lunch or ' _whatever_ '--after school?"

Jesus, this is starting to sound like a porno. He only manages to stop himself from saying that because the message in cursive reads: ' _Explanation later._ '

"Lunch. I'm busy after school." He has to meet up with Davy and the boys, to know all the plans and what'll be going down this week.

Mr. Hart frowns but still nods his head, turning back to the textbook, dismissive.

Dickbag.

 

»»»

 

When he gets there at lunch, there's a bag of McDonald's on the teacher's desk and Eggsy doesn't know what to feel. The anger he was building up the past few hours is now stunted. But only for a moment.

Now, he's angrier than ever. Because that's some manipulative shit if he's ever seen one.

The door opens behind him and Eggsy can't help but sneer, "Late to your own detention?"

He's faced with a glassless Mr. Hart who arches a brow and replies, "I'm not the one being punished. You're the only one who has to be here. I could technically have someone watch over you."

"Not if you're gonna explain things to me," Eggsy counters, hands on his hips, trying to be intimidating like his mum. It falls short, he thinks, when the man only raises his other eyebrow. Eggsy lets his arms fall back to his sides and makes a show of waiting.

"Aren't you going to eat first?" Mr. Hart sits behind his desk, pushing forward the bag on the surface towards him.

"No," He petulantly refuses, crossing his arms. "Explain. Now."

There's a moment of tense silence, and the man's gaze flickers over to the door, which Eggsy realises is locked.

Fuck.

That should not spike a thrill up his spine, shit.

He takes his rucksack off and puts it over his lap as he sits on a student desk, feet dangling from the floor.

"Your teacher is indeed out sick. Tragic case of the measles, she said. Dreadful stuff." Mr. Hart begins.

"Yeah, and they got an international posh tailor to cover for her."

They stare at each other, and Eggsy refuses to break.

"I have a distinguished teaching credential, would you like to see?"

Eggsy scoffs in disbelief, but the man holds his ground, and so of course, he plays along, smiling sharply. " _Yeah_ , I wanna see."

"...Pity, I left that at home."

Rolling his eyes, Eggsy tries not to fucking laugh. Teenagers use that excuse for homework not...whatever this man is.

"Oh well," Eggsy sighs, putting on a sweet, sweet tone of sarcasm, "Should I pay you a visit at home then? Promise, I won't rob you this time."

"Do," Mr. Hart agrees, "Your contract is waiting there for you."

Eggsy's grin is frozen on his face, and the man's brows furrow. "Did you not believe it was a serious offer?"

"No, I--" He startles, caught off-guard, and falls back on rash anger. "Don't try to distract me."

Mr. Hart sighs his name in exasperation and Eggsy's toes curl, hidden beneath his shoes.

"This is very important," The man says, opening the bag in front of him and taking out the fries. "I think it's best you continue on pretending not to previously have known me. We both know that it would be very bad for your reputation to be seen otherwise."

Eggsy's offended, but he's partly distracted by the way Mr. Hart's mouth makes light contact with a bit of his own fingers--the very tips of it--when he feeds himself, and Eggsy doesn't even care anymore, he has to fucking leave.

"Yeah, okay. Alright. Whatever," He breathes, making his way to the door and ignoring the flicker of surprise on Mr. Hart's face. He yanks on the door before remembering it's locked, giving the man enough time to say, "An interesting choice of haircut, by the way."

The flush shouldn't be noticeable since he has his back turned, thank fuck.

 

»»»

 

Eggsy doesn't wank off. He's very determined about this. He knows it's just a thing. It's nothing serious. Just because a dream hints at something, it doesn't necessarily have to mean _anything_. He’s not a poof. And he can't wank off to the man who blames himself for getting Eggsy's Da killed, 'cos that shit is problematic as hell and he's gonna hold off for as long as he fucking can. So he takes a fucking cold shower and decides to shave off the fuzz that's been low-key growing on his face because it's dumb anyway. Some wispy hair they were, weak as fuck.

What he does do instead is take his journal from under the mattress, pull his medal hidden from underneath his shirt and use the key right behind it to open the bloody thing and stare at the blank pages. He hesitates at first, all the reasons why he shouldn't do this coming in all at once but--fuck it. He bites hard on the end of his cheap pen before putting the ball-point tip against the page:

 

 _Fuck you. This is your fault._

_If I get a fetish for brollies, we're gonna have a problem. 'Cos I woke up this morning, you know, feeling that tip of your umbrella right against me, the way you had me that time in your posh house last Saturday._

 

Eggsy pauses, hand clenching the pen at reading ' _the way you had me_ '. Jesus.

 

_It wasn't just against my neck--the way the sweat of my skin made it easier to glide ever so slowly down, down, and **down** and fuck you. You better hope you don't show up in my dreams again arsehole, because I'm gonna make your life miserable and you won't even know why._

_And really now you show up again as a teacher, of all things. The fuck? You better watch out._

 

He stops himself from going any further and goes to his part-time job.

Other than that, Eggsy spends his days studying for his upcoming exams, steadily making his way back into sports, balancing his time with Ryan and Jamal versus meeting with Davy and his pals--Jamal only gave him a pointed look at the haircut while Ryan died rolling across the floor. He's starting to wonder if Ryan's on some kind of drugs and he just didn't know it.

Eggsy also spends his time hating Mr. Hart. Eggsy's getting used to having him around, seeing him first thing in the morning, passing him by through the halls during the rest of the day, ignoring him.

And if you catch him staring, it's only 'cos of the suit, okay? It's weird seeing him in that suit instead of the fancier one with the subtle pinstripes and extra buttons on it, and he wonders if the one he currently has on would feel just as nice if he--

 _Anyway_ , the thing is, Mr. Harry Hart is a hard arse. He's really serious about the material, but he tries to be reasonable about the workload. He focuses on lecturing and the context and subtext of the lessons, engaging, and making sense of things in a different angle than most instructors would even go for. So, he's surprisingly good at his 'job', memorable and...charming--As the group of girls constantly chatter on about. And really it's not just them girls, he's heard the guys begrudgingly give their nod of approval.

And shit, this man's taking over the whole bloody school. From the way some of the female staffers look at him, the way they do a double-take when they pass him by and do this awkward laugh and greet him as if he's some fucking dignitary that roams the place--fuck, it's more than a bit annoying.

But that's not the worst part. Oh no, that's not it.

The worst part is when he gives them attention back--polite attention, mind you, but attention nevertheless. [Yvonne](http://0-q-0.tumblr.com/tagged/YVONNE-JANSEN) 'forgot' her homework once, and that's bullshit 'cos Yvonne is a fucking do-gooder who does everything fucking right, and she explains this to Mr. Hart, making a big deal of it and how sorry she is, eyes getting shiny and Eggsy's fingers twitches to maybe drag her by the hair and lock her out of the classroom.

Mr. Hart on the other hand, does that blinking thing he does with a small frown, reassuring her. And this happens way too much with other students too, up to the point where Mr. Hart even makes the offer to help if anyone's having trouble understanding something, ' _So feel free to come in during any available time_ ', he says, ' _And take note that while I have no class to teach the period before school ends for the day, I'm in my room more often than not_ '.

And so _of course_ , people get this damn look in their eyes and come a-flockin'. It's only the first damn week and Eggsy's willing to bet his left bollock that there's a Mr. Hart fan club somewhere.

Well, fuck that. So he maybe acts out a bit.

He reasons it's because the very same girls used to look at Eggsy that way. Well, they still do, but now it's really more of a divided attention. Eggsy has to step his game up, he's got to win them back, just for ego's sake. So the guy has a posh nice fitting suit and a voice that could go on reading phonebooks for hours, what of it?

Eggsy can be charming as fuck. Eggsy can get some.

If he wanted to.

A lot of things come up in his head when he sees him. Mostly unresolved issues, yeah, sure, but when their eyes meet every now and then, Eggsy tries not to think of the dagger too. He tries not to remember how hefty it was in his grip, real and tangible with its detailed design, the press of it against his palm. Late at night though, the thoughts come to him, inescapable, and he hates how guilty he feels. It gnaws at Eggsy: Where did it come from? What's the history of it? Where is it now? Did it even sell near as much as it was really worth? How much _was_ it worth anyway? Because he has a bad feeling about it, and he feels fucking stupid. He hates Mr. Hart for giving it to him just like that, easy peasy.

What kind of person does that?

Despite trying to hold back for a few days, he gives in. He casually brings it up to Jamie, one of the less threatening ones in Davy's group.

The guy just gives him a weird look. "S'not like it matters innit? Davy gets to decide what to do with it."

Bloody tosser, Jamie is.

Leon cuts in, seemingly from nowhere. "What do ya want with it?"

"Nothing, just curious ya know." Eggsy shrugs. Leon is Davy's unofficial second in command, kinda creepy, really quiet, always watching. Granted, this whole thing's been happening a bit too fast, so maybe the guy hasn't really warmed up to Eggsy yet. Makes sense.

It doesn't make the suspicious look he has on his face any less annoying, though. "'Just curious'?"

"Okay, so I wanna know if he sold it yet or somewhat. It was my first official loot for this group ya know, it kinda has sentimental value," Eggsy blurts.

Leon squints, looking torn between being amused and disbelieving, so Eggsy squeezes it for what's it's worth, "And if he _did_ sell it, I was wonderin' what it sold for, and if we're gettin' a share, if ya know what I mean?" He turns to Jamie, who nods like he's just figured it out.

"Alright," Leon says. "I'll ask Davy 'bout it."

"Cool. Alright." Eggsy grins good-naturedly.

 

\--»

 

For the next few days, Eggsy plays his part well. A bit too well, if Harry's being honest--He doesn't like to think about the conflicting pride he feels at such a good job, versus the disappointment at the fact that he's being ignored. He initially expected more resistance when he brought it up, but the boy had simply left, keeping his word.

It's jarring, how he sees him in his natural habitat. Eggsy is carefree, laughter and friendly jabs with his fellow schoolmates. At least, those who don't resist his magnetic pull. Some look at him with disdain and this isn't restricted to students. From the talks of the faculty in the break room, Eggsy Unwin is an ambivalent subject for the staff. He does well in academics, they say, most of the time when he doesn't purposely fail a test or two--mostly they wish he'd stop 'messing about' and distracting the class, making unnecessary comments and the like.

The haircut was a surprise to begin with. It makes him seem more grown-up than he already is, and Harry's not sure if that sits well with him. It accentuates the boy's face, the sharp lines of his profile, it makes him appear more rough and it makes Harry worry just a bit, makes him wonder what Eggsy eats for his meals that leave him lacking in necessary fat and softness.

On another note, he's seen the same perpetrators from the CCTV a few streets away from his home milling about the school. Which is why he didn't give in to the urge to tell Eggsy what he was really doing here in the first place. There's a few of them about, but there is one in particular who appears to be the leader of the group: A suspicious individual, almost a school-leaver, a student named David 'Davy' Buboli. A tall skinny boy with an atrocious mole near his upper lip, arrogant and rude. Harry has also noticed Eggsy consorting with his group a couple of times. There's a rather pathetic hope that they're not involved in drugs.

Regardless, with the go-ahead from Kingsman for this mission, Harry has to send in reports whenever he can. With his extra heightened skills in technology, he has control of his surveillance feed and his glasses are heavily encrypted. He's aware that Merlin is suspicious, considering Harry went straight to Arthur with the intel and the proposal to begin with. Dean Baker may be a small fish in the grand scheme of things, but higher up on his chain of command is Alexei Spiros, a significant name in the international drug-trade among other things that grant him several connections within the organised crime arena.

Mycroft keeps nagging him about the entire anti-terrorism initiative, but Harry finds every way possible to ignore such attempts of contact while still having the benefit of the doubt. If he's honest, he's tired of that whole situation and would readily put it behind him. Not that it wasn't important, but MI5 is back on their feet, and he has issues he'd rather prioritise. Issues that were conveniently ignored for the past two years due to this mess, leading to consequences he would rather not have escalate.

Arthur had simply clapped him on the shoulder, impressed by his show of initiative. Being aware that he's a genuine contender for Arthur's position has its perks, he supposes, despite wanting nothing to do with it whatsoever. Harry is truly just after Dean--whatever other birds he kills with the same stone is merely a bonus.

He meets with Michelle on the weekend, and he tries to consider why he wouldn't tell her what he's currently doing if, in some alternate universe, he was allowed to. It feels like he's doing something behind her back, which can't possibly be good for the whole intention of mending relationships with the Unwins to begin with. But that's only if she finds out. It seems Eggsy hasn't told her anything, as they merely go on about business as usual. Harry politely asks about her job hunting, and she immediately shuts him down with a look. "Don't think I don't know what you’re tryin' to do."

Harry stares at her blankly, waiting.

"I'm a grown woman, I can find my own bloody job," She continues on, which is truly a pity. What's wrong with a bit of networking? Preposterous. Regardless, Harry clears his throat, caught in the act, and they move on to other topics.

Despite the danger, Michelle clearly wants to go back home to her flat and her impatience shows. She says that she doesn't like being a burden to other people, despite her friend insisting that Michelle and her son are completely welcome to stay for as long as they like.

No one's that nice, Harry thinks, but he's already done a background check on Anna Wilkins and she checks out so far; A middle-aged, recently divorced woman with a son in uni all the way in Manchester, thus the other spare room for Eggsy. She works as a masseuse in a co-owned reputable business, and Michelle even says that Anna has offered to introduce Eggsy to the job if he shows any interest.

Harry honestly doubts that, and tries not to think more about that scenario.

As Michelle goes on, Harry quietly schemes at how he could possibly hand over a secure, nice property to the Unwins without being found suspicious from all parties involved. Merlin would eventually find out. Probably. It depends if Quinlan would ally with him on this one.

By the middle of the second week, Harry has made significant progress in finding out who Dean's drug mules are just by sheer observation and appearing bored and uninterested as students talk on and on about their personal lives. It's almost disappointing, how easy it has all been. More appallingly, there's a large amount of pupils who has trouble distinguishing 'your' and 'you're' in their assignments--particularly Eggsy, in an increasing amount of incidents. Which is odd, considering he wasn't having these type of problems in the previous papers he was handing in.

With the way the boy is currently leaning into Ms. Longman's space all the way from his seat, it occurs to him then.

 _Ah_.

The lasciviousness of youth.

Harry tries to remember if he was immensely affected during his own teenage years and he can't quite remember. No one really stands out in his memory. It hardly matters. Despite being mildly piqued about it, he tries to be understanding about the effect of hormones on such young bodies.

Still, Eggsy should be paying attention. For all he talked about trying to get into a good university and making his mother proud, he can't be gallivanting around like this, winking left and right, sharp grins and eyebrows waggling, drawing laughter tapering off to soft smiles.

Harry catches himself, pursing his lips instead, back to mild annoyance.

To be fair, the talks of such goals were before Dean ever stepped into the picture. It simply could be different now. The mere thought of it brings back the guilt.

"Mr. Unwin."

Eggsy startles, glancing at him and raising a very insolent eyebrow. "Yessir?"

There's something strangely satisfying about the notion of obedience, despite how much of it is an illusion. Harry makes a show of shuffling the papers on his desk and stares at the particular one with several red marks on it. "I do hope you didn't have any plans for the early evening."

There's a snort at that, and Eggsy pulls away from Alicia Longman's space to fully turn towards him, face full of thinly veiled contempt as he leans back on his seat, a bit too relaxed, legs open wide underneath his desk. "Why, you askin' me out on a date, _Harry_?"

In the abrupt shock of silence, Eggsy [winks](http://i.imgur.com/laUnXsA.gif).

And Harry stares, dumbfounded. He's aware of his own blank face, a default setting being in this business for so long, but he's absolutely caught off-guard that it feels like a significant amount of time has passed, long enough for the quiet to be filled with low escalating jeers of ' _oooooooo_ ' from other students.

He knows he isn't sweating. But it feels like it.

"No," Harry manages, keeping his composure. "Afraid not. Detention will do."

The jeers become interjected with laughter and Eggsy grins, saving face Harry supposes, before settling to bite his lower lip.

At the sight of it, he feels a different kind of dread.

 

\--»

 

Eggsy can be smart. But Eggsy can be very, very stupid.

He didn't mean to do that, obviously, but now he has to report to Davy at lunch and tell him why he can't meet with them after school. And Davy is angry as hell, because they've been planning this stint since last week.

"The fuck this geezer want with ya?" He spits, and Eggsy tries not to be offended.

He shrugs, playing dumb. "Dunno."

"Then fuckin' ditch him, we've got more important things to do," Davy grouses.

"Look, I know this is important but--he could call me mum, yeah? Get me in trouble?" Eggsy tries.

Davy swiftly turns around, looking him dead in the eyes. "Unwin, do ya have any idea the amount of money ya could make fer yer mum with this haul? Yer the best one we got for pulling this off!"

Jamie pipes up from the corner, "Yeah, yeah! Plus, have ya seen the guy? Looks like a repressed poof if ya ask me!"

"Yeah, see?" Davy motions towards Jamie, agreeing. "He probably just gave ya detention so he can molest ya, Unwin, so--"

"He's not--" Eggsy stops himself, trying to get his hackles to settle. _He's not like that_ , he wants to tell them. They wait for him to finish his sentence, daring. Leon just has his arms crossed, watching with this eerily blank look on his face.

"Okay, alright, just...ten to thirty minutes, max. Then I'll be at the meeting place, I swear, I'll ditch the guy." Eggsy raises both his hands, trying to look submissive.

Davy waves a finger at him, threatening. "Ya better fuckin' be there, Unwin. I'll even give ya yer bloody dagger back, that's how important this operation is."

"Shit, really?"

"Yeah, fuckin' really, so don't let me down."

This is all working out better than he thought it would. He can get the dagger back to Mr. Hart so he won't feel like he owes him shit and be guilty about it. This is a win-win. Eggsy huffs and grins, "As if I'd ever let ya down, bruv."

He goes on to leave them, so he doesn't hear it when Leon breaks his silence, peeling himself off the wall. "There's somethin' goin' on."

"Whatcha mean?" asks Davy.

"That teacher, Hart, he don't look familiar to ya?" Leon prompts.

Davy narrows his eyes. "No, is he supposed to?"

"Ya know that place in South Kensington I've had cased? Near Gloucester Road station? Unwin's final test?"

"Yeah?"

"That's the owner, bloke in the suit I was on about."

Davy cackles on in disbelief until he realises Leon's face remains flat. "Ya fuckin' sure?"

"Yeah, and ya'd know it too if ya actually went on stakeouts instead of leavin' them to other people, but ya don't."

Jamie groans, "Aww, shit man. Ya think that's why he called Unwin to detention?"

Swiftly turning around, Davy shoots him a look, "Don't be ridiculous, even if it was the case, Unwin would take the fall. He knows the fuckin' code." Leon has known him long enough to see the doubt through the barking assurance, and he delivers the final blow.

"That ain't the problem here."

Davy is starting to look frazzled. "And what the fuck _is_ the problem, Leon?"

"I've passed him by a few times around school--Hart, I mean. Just to make sure."

"And?"

"He smells like Unwin."

 

»»»

 

Eggsy is sweaty as hell by the time he finishes punishing himself through exercise and skips the shower to head for detention. Maybe Eggsy'll stink up the place so bad, Mr. Hart will tell him to leave. It'll serve him right. It'll also make things easier when he meets up with the rest of Davy's group later on, considering he won't have to change out of the uniform, just staying in his tracksuit.

He opens the door to find what's gotta be the worst thing he can't ever unsee: The lights are off and it's mostly cloudy outside, but a bit of sunlight comes through from behind the curtains. And in the dim space is Yvonne Jansen, sat on the teacher's desk, hands propped up behind her, skirt hiked up, legs wide open and Harry Hart standing near in between them.

The world drops underneath Eggsy and he can't --- _he can't fucking breathe._ He's on autopilot, backing up, trying to get away, but it's weak at best and he's already been spotted.

There is steel in his tone as Mr. Hart commands, "Get out."

Eggsy manages to turn away and sluggishly make for his escape, feeling indescribably worse than he ever possibly could. There's a quick scuffle in the background before Yvonne scurries past him, bumping Eggsy against the doorway, stunning him some more. Before he can even take another step to leave, there's a hand on the back of his neck, dragging him backwards, making him yelp.

Next thing he knows, he's facing a closed door, quickly locked by a familiar hand. Eggsy twists to face him in outrage, but there's a cold sensation enclosed around his wrist and there's a _clink_ before he sees he's being handcuffed to the pipe that runs up along the wall barely two feet away.

"What--" He stares, and then wiggles his arm, causing more metallic noises. "What the fuck?" He gapes, wide-eyed at Mr. Hart, whose face is dangerously impassive.

"Would you believe me if I told you it wasn't what it looked like?"

A hysterical laugh bubbles out of Eggsy, and he almost winces at how hoarse it sounds. "Fuck you."

"That's what I thought," He sighs, taking a step back, giving Eggsy some needed air as he takes off his glasses and pinches the bridge of his nose. The next time he looks up, he seems resolute about something.

"Lestrade needed some more information," Mr. Hart says, quiet, and Eggsy can only stare because he has no idea what the flying fuck that means. It must show on his face because the man reaches inside his trouser pocket and pulls out a pack of pills. "Miss Jansen was selling me drugs."

In the silence, Eggsy tries to let it all sink in.

"Is that supposed to fucking make me feel better?" He blurts, a bit premature because--it does. In some weird messed up way, it _does_ make him feel better, but still, "And what the hell was that? All 'draw me like one of your French girls', gross underage schoolgirl shit, is that part of the deal?"

"No, Eggsy."

"Then what was that?" He demands, unwavering. There's a light uncharacteristic shrug he gets as a reply and hell no. "That--" he mimics it, quick and mocking, "That ain't gonna cut it, you've gotta gimme something better than that."

"You know how it is," Mr. Hart begins, obviously tired from the way he's just sitting on some desk. "Kids offering things they don't mean."

Eggsy waits for some more explanation but there isn't, and he struggles against the handcuff in sheer frustration. "Things they don't mean?" He spits, fuming. "Guv, if I was laying myself out on your desk like that you better fucking _know_ I mean it."

There's a moment when Eggsy realises the _mortifying shit_ that just came out of his mouth and he wants to disappear and never be seen again because--Mr. Hart's posture straightens at that, and it's barely noticeable but Eggsy notices far too much about him, and Mr. Hart's mouth parts, and it's all so slow; He has no idea what's coming, and he really doesn't want to.

Eggsy can hear himself still breathing harshly and it's too loud against the quiet.

"This, coming from the boy who propositioned me in front of his classmates." Mr. Hart has an eyebrow raised, and Eggsy know he's been given an out. He can't even be thankful, considering that there’s a wave of annoyance at being ignored to begin with, along with the shame at his initial mistake being brought up. "...And using my first name too, quite careless considering our arrangement."

"Well," Eggsy stands as dignified as he can with dried up sweat in his tracksuits while being partly handcuffed, "You've always wanted me to use your first name, eh, Harry?"

The man gives him a dry look. "Incorrigible, you still are."

Somehow Eggsy can't help but grin at that. "So what, you a cop?"

"No."

Eggsy shoots him an unamused look, lightly struggling against the handcuff as non-verbal comeback.

"More of a volunteer at this point," Mr. Hart says vaguely, still sitting on a tiny student desk five feet away. Too far. Somehow, this combined along with the late realisation of this whole situation leaves Eggsy gasping, "You're a fuckin' narc! Oh my go--"

"Do keep quiet." Mr. Hart is in front of him after a few quick strides, and there's something about him, something _dangerous_ , just beneath the surface, and Eggsy wants to see, Eggsy wants to---"I'm only here because you had refused give up the drug mules that could lead to Dean, putting a halt to Lestrade's investigation."

And that--that makes Eggsy angry. "Then what?" He seethes, "What are ya gonna do to the people who're selling them? The people who need to earn a bit of money for their family, for their education, for their future?"

The man's brows furrow, but his overall expression seems somewhat softer. "I see."

"Do ya? Do ya fuckin' really?" Eggsy challenges, and reaches a pointed finger at him, barely brushing against the tie. The fact that he's still too far to grab somehow frustrates him some more.

Taking a step back, Mr. Hart looks up at him, sincere. "I assure you, they will be taken care of."

Eggsy hates how at the core of it all, he believes him. Doesn't mean he can't fight that shit. "Yeah? And how are ya gonna do that?"

"The specifics of it, I'm afraid I cannot disclose. However, each and every one of them who will surrender and cooperate will be given a deal, as per--"

Eggsy bitterly scoffs, and he knows he's purposely being an arsehole, but unresolved issues can be surprising that way. "A _deal_ , yeah, that's what that was," He sneers, "Yvonne spreadin' her legs for ya, what a _fuckin'_ deal." Eggsy struggles against the handcuff, straining as far as he can, cutting and biting.

There's only the mild flash of affront before the man's expression shuts down. "I have no interest in such things."

"Yeah? Then what do ya have an interest for?" He baits.

"Your safety."

A silence blankets the room the moment after those two words are said. It stops Eggsy, because how could it not? The way Harry Hart says it so simply, yet so firm and genuine; it stuns him. ' _Your Safety_ ', he said, like it's something to be naturally dedicated to. ' _Your safety_ ', he said, like nothing else could ever really matter.

"What do you want from me?" croaks Eggsy, ultimately dropping his gaze. He feels tired, and he just wants answers. He wants to know why Harry Hart keeps flitting about his life, he wants to know what to expect, he wants to know when he'll leave so he can get over him much better than he did last time.

"David Buboli and his group, can you stay away from them?"

Eggsy sighs, not even thinking to ask about how he knows that. He only looks back up at him, quietly determined. "No."

There's almost a sad smile at that, and Eggsy itches to make him understand. "People gotta make their living, Mr. Hart. What are you gon' do about it?"

"...Nothing."

"Yeah?"

Mr. Hart barely nods. "I respect your decision. It is what it is."

The room is quiet, and shit just got too deep for some reason, so it's not entirely bizarre that Eggsy's forgotten that he's handcuffed on one wrist. He huffs with a touch of humour. "You gonna let me go then or nah?"

"That depends."

The hairs of his skin stand at attention at that, followed by a chilling _thrill_ , and no. Not now. God, he's literally facing the guy in his slightly sweaty tracksuit. If there's gonna be some boner action, it's gonna show and no goddammit. He swallows, trying to get his breathing to calm down. "Depends on what?" He licks his lips as a nervous habit and he swears--he fucking swears that Mr. Hart's eyes darts down to it, shit. "You want me to be quiet? I can be quiet. I've never grassed any one up, I swear," Eggsy's biting his lips before he finally adds, " _Harry_. Harry, I swear it."

At this point, Eggsy isn't really sure what he's pleading for.

"I know," says Mr. Hart, soft. "Do you still have that mobile?"

Eggsy blinks, taken aback. "...Yes." The answer comes out before he realises how embarrassing it sounds and he scowls, as if that could fight back the heat rushing to his face. "What do ya want with it?"

"Just keep it on you at all times. Please," He adds, polite again as he slowly takes a step forward.

"What for?"

"Is it presumptuous of me to think I'm still on speed dial?"

Another step. Eggsy's heart thuds, echoing in his ears.

"Thought you got mugged," He mutters.

"I fought to get the number back," The reply comes, easy, and Mr. Hart is close enough that Eggsy could probably touch him if he reached out.

"And?" Eggsy prompts, feeling like he may be just starting to sweat.

"If you ever need me, _never_ hesitate." It's practically a whisper with how gentle it is, and there's another wave of goosebumps on Eggsy's skin. He has to turn his head down, because-- _fuck_ , he can't meet his eyes.

"Look at me," _shitshitshit_. "Eggsy."

He's gritting his teeth and Mr. Hart's hand comes in view, inches away under his chin and--it stops there, hovering. There's no physical contact but Eggsy can feel the _heat_ of it, and he tries so hard to fight the urge to lean against it, and the only way to do that is to look up.

Their gazes meet, and Mr. Hart says, "Promise me. Give me your word."

Eggsy swallows, and he can't even play dumb and ask what he's talking about, because they're still looking at each other. "Why does it matter? I could be lying."

"Your word means everything."

The breath in his lungs escapes at such display of _trust_ , and Eggsy stupidly vows, earnest, "I promise."

Mr. Hart's hand clasps at the place between his neck and shoulder, firm, the few tips of his fingers dipping underneath Eggsy's collar a bit cold but setting his skin on fire anyway. He doesn't even realise the handcuffs are off until the heat of Mr. Hart's gentle hold on his wrist, holding his arm up, gets too noticeable. The man frowns at the redness. "You really shouldn't have struggled. At least not that much."

Eggsy scoffs at that, feeling a bit more like himself, and lightly shakes him off, pulling his own arm closer to him. He doesn't have to make any awkward talk, because he notices the time on Mr. Hart's watch, and--"Shit, I'm late."

 

\---

 

The boy dashes off, and Harry stays in the empty room for a few more minutes before deciding not to think too much about what just happened. He's a spy, he notices things. For the first time, however, he thinks he might just be getting old and misidentifying body language could be the first sign of it. Despite that, he keeps up appearances and makes sure he isn't tailed as he makes his way home.

In his home office, he turns on the laptop and double-checks that the bug on Eggsy is working. Harry has done this numerous times for a living and has had no qualms about it whatsoever--but it feels slightly immoral to do this to Eggsy of all people. He wouldn't be doing this if he had opted _not_ to follow up on David Buboli. And while Harry is certain he's capable of such restraint, he's a Kingsman for fuck's sake. He has instincts.

Activating the data transfer, he pairs some earphones with his mobile before moving on to changing suits. He grabs the Rainmaker and walks a few streets away to get to a private garage for his motorcycle.

Harry knows for a fact that there is something set to happen today, and he will be there for the fallout.

 

 


	14. 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Erm...Sorry

 

Switching from tube lines in record time and fighting against the foot traffic, Eggsy finally gets to the meeting place near the docks in East London, slightly out of breath. The light on-and-off rain makes everything damp and smell more shitty than it usually is, and no matter how many different tactics he tries to breathe, it lingers.

Davy's nowhere in sight, but Jamie is, waiting with arms crossed near the back of the building. There's something different about him, more guarded, and that should give Eggsy a hint, but it's one he chooses to ignore.

Eggsy grins, huffing, "What I'd say? Told ya lot I'd make it. Where's the rest of us?"

Jamie only nods his head to some vague direction and takes out his mobile, still watching him. Eggsy raises his eyebrows and haltingly makes his way further through the narrow dirty alley leading to three small steps and a steel door. He doesn't even get to knock before it swings open, Leon on the other side with Davy behind him.

"Unwin," Davy greets him with a sharp smile.

Eggsy returns it with his own. "I made it, bruv. Where's my dagger?"

"Oh, ya mean this?" Davy pulls it from his waistband--which, okay, Eggsy's gonna have to disinfect that shit.

"Yeah--" His cheerful confirmation gets cut off when the dagger is dropped on the dirty wet concrete. "Oi!"

Davy stomps on the dagger and kicks it away, ending up somewhere near the steps. In a state of shocking rage, Eggsy takes a step forward, and he immediately gets yanked back by Leon and Jamie suddenly on the other side of him, pushing Eggsy hard against the bricks. "What the fuck?"

"I'm really disappointed in ya, Unwin," Davy clicks his tongue, positioning himself in front of Eggsy. "Ya were the most promising one yet ya know? The way ya did everythin' with grace, that time ya stole us a car--I knew it was too good to be true."

"The fuck are ya on about?" Eggsy lightly struggles against Leon and Jamie's hold, testing and assessing while feigning weakness at the same time.

He's been playing the submissive underdog so far as a precaution, and he thinks it'll finally pay off. He can take all of them--and with the adrenaline currently buzzing around in his system, he's pretty sure about it. Eggsy just doesn't wanna give the whole game away yet. He can still save this. He can handle this.

And it's none of anyone's business if the feel of the Nokia against his inner ankle held snug in his sock is a grounding comfort.

Davy spits on Eggsy's trainers. Fucking tosser. That was his oldest pair. "Who is he?"

"Who--what?" sputters Eggsy, genuinely confused.

But the accusations go on, one after another.

"What are ya supposed to be? A plant? How much did them pigs pay ya?"

"Mate, what the hell are ya--"

The hard smack against the side of his face stuns Eggsy into silence.

"I ain't yer mate right now, Unwin," Davy seethes, face getting closer, and Eggsy only realises too late that there's a serrated knife against his throat.

"Fuck," He sighs. "A knife--really? That ain't fair," Eggsy blurts for the lack of anything else to say, grimacing.

 

\--

 

A few streets away, Harry's gloved hand clenches around a handlebar. He decides to get off his motorcycle and keeps his helmet on as he grabs his umbrella from its clutch before walking off.

 

\--

 

"Who the hell is Harry Hart?"

 _Shit_.

"Fu--ya mean the supply teacher?" Eggsy tries, and he gets a knee in the crotch for it. He grunts. The sheer blinding pain nearly sends him to the ground if it weren't for Jamie and Leon still holding him up, and he manages to keep his head angled back, away from the knife, or else he’ll stab himself with it. His eyes sting and water. "Davy--I have no fuckin' idea what you're talking about-- _Fuck_."

"That final test of yours was way too easy. I shoulda known--" He's shaking his head, looking a bit deranged around the eyes. "--And now the bloke just _happens_ to show up in our school?" He rages on, knife pressing harder against Eggsy's neck.

Eggsy stutters, and his fear is real, cold as the knife against his skin. "I swear--I fuckin' swear--"

"Who the fuck is he?" Davy demands.

"He's--" Eggsy struggles, and a pitiful noise comes out of him before his eyes fall on the dagger a few feet away.

"Yeah?" Davy urges.

Eggsy's breath is harsh and he growls, leaning forward against the knife and baring his teeth. "He's my fuckin' sugar daddy."

A stunned silence falls.

"Wot?" Davy blinks at him, obviously out of his depth. The weight of Jamie and Leon's stares almost make him falter, but Eggsy psychs himself back up.

"Fuckin' _yeah_ ," He spits back, indignant. "What are ya gon' do 'bout it? How was I supposed to know the final test was gonna be at his place?"

"But--" Davy squints, muddled at his own self-doubt, his hold of the knife slightly wavering.

Leon cuts in, "This actually makes sense. I told ya, he smells like him. I just didn't think it was...'cos of that." There's a sense of awkward distaste. But that's not what throws Eggsy off-kilter.

"I smell like wot?" He questions, bewildered.

"Nah," Davy finds his resolve. "Bullshit." He tightens his grip on the knife even though Jamie and Leon have loosened their hold on Eggsy. "Yer a fuckin' ladies man, Unwin. Ya almost stole my girl from me once."

"Fuck off," Eggsy can't believe he has to defend himself like this, and his angry frustration is genuine. "That man is a fuckin' _wet dream_ \--swear down--" An abrupt, hysterical laugh escapes him and he leans in close, goading and elated as he enunciates the words, "And I _love_ it when Harry Hart fucks me _hard_ and calls me his _darling boy --_ your girl couldn't do that for me, bruv," He sneers, feeling invincible.

"Well shit," blurts Jamie, sounding like he's blushing.

"I knew I shoulda made you a whore..."

The familiar voice freezes the grin on Eggsy's face.

Dean comes out from behind the door, pushing it in a slight grating creak.

Eggsy absolutely hates the fear crawling up his system. Despite that though, he's proud of the fact that he mindlessly manages to press the inner knob of his ankle against his other leg and feel for the main round button of his Nokia before pushing for a significant amount of time. At the very back of his mind he desperately hopes it works.

"...A whore, just like yer mum," Dean leers.

It snaps Eggsy back to reality.

"Now, Dean--" Davy starts. The fuck?

"Scram kid, you'll get what yer owed. It was smart of ya to finally call me."

Eggsy is a mixture of rage and confusion, which is why he's barely aware of the yell he lets out before he tackles Dean to the ground. He distantly notices Davy and his pals scamper off, but he's too busy trying to avoid Dean's retaliating hands and punching the bastard in the face.

 

\--

 

The sound of Eggsy grunting in his ears halts as Harry's mobile vibrates. At the same time he spots David Buboli and his group heading out. Their eyes go wide at the sight of him, which would be quite humorous in any other situation; It's a proper reaction to seeing a well-suited, umbrella-carrying man with a helmet obscuring his face on what's supposed to be a private property. As of this moment however--

"What the fu--" One of them manages to say before Harry shoots an amnesia dart into their neck.

The rest of them attempt to flee, but he takes them down one by one, even resorting to his umbrella due to the distance.

Only then does he remember the vibration of his mobile.

 

\--

 

One of Dean's hands grab onto Eggsy's rucksack in trying to pull him off. Unsuccessful, he immediately starts jabbing at his lower back instead, right at the kidneys, and the ongoing sharp buildup of pain distracts Eggsy for a long enough second. He gets pushed off with a merciless knee to his stomach.

Eggsy immediately tries to recover, but an empty glass bottle goes down on the left side of his face.

It's only instinct to brush it off, but he stops just as he starts, shaking off the shards of glass on his palms. The pain is excruciating as he takes his rucksack off and throws it aside. He has the remaining sense to prevent it from being used as a leverage to pull him around.

Eggsy struggles, scurrying backwards on the ground as fast as he can while trying to pull his trouser leg up to get to the Nokia in his sock. His hand shakes and he can distantly hear, " _-ggsy. Hello?_ "

"Harry," He breathes.

The edges of the steps are sharp against his back and it's as far as he can go. He blindly reaches for the door but the latch won't budge; It's locked. He has the phone pressed against his ear as he watches Dean make his way to him, menacing. Eggsy feels something warm drip down his face, and the words leave him, frantic and thoughtless, "Harry--come find me."

Parts of his face sting and the pain in his body gets worse as the milliseconds go on. There's a debilitating sort of numbness spreading with it and it's so tempting to give in--

\--Except there's something digging in from underneath his thigh.

Quickly putting the mobile on loudspeaker and setting it down, he absently feels for the thing, and he simply knows what it is.

" _Eggsy--_ "

With renewed vigour, Eggsy hisses as he stands, charging to meet Dean head-on and brandishing the sheathed dagger at the last second, aiming for his face as an angry retaliation. The blow lands and Eggsy knees him hard in the bollocks. The dagger clatters to the ground a few feet away but Eggsy just continues on, pushing Dean down to the ground, hands going for the throat as he holds him down with the weight of his body.

All he knows is that he has to get rid of him. He has to get rid of Dean and everything will be okay. He and his mum will be safe, and no one's gonna bother them no more.

Fingernails dig into his arms through cloth, and the pain just makes him try harder.

He's not letting go. Not this time. No matter what it takes.

No more looking over his shoulder. No more living in shameful fear.

The struggling hands wander off, desperately going for his neck, his face. Eggsy distantly notices the red before he bites down on the wandering hands, and he realises that he's tasting his own blood. He feels Dean convulse in his try to scream but the man only ends up choking some more, face going a distracting shade of purplish red--an Eggsy just feels himself hysterically grinning, breathing hard. Eggsy will be the last thing the bastard sees.

"-ggsy. Eggsy, no."

Something is grabbing a hold of Eggsy, and no.

_No, no, no, no._

He bears down harder on Dean, unwilling to let him go, but the hands on him pull just as hard, yanking him up.

Dean is gasping for air, _breathing_ , and Eggsy fights to make his way back, but these hands are _strong_. He ends up being pushed hard, back against the bricks. Eggsy can't focus on anything else but the sight of Dean still _alive,_ and Eggsy thrashes. A steady hand on his chest immediately presses him back.

"--No, Eggsy."

He can only hiss back, rabid and angry, deciding to fight him instead so he can get to Dean.

"Eggsy," The firm, commanding tone is accompanied by another strong push on his chest and it makes him snap his eyes upward.

Glassless with his posh black suit, hair mussed and out of place; _Harry_.

Eggsy keens, desperate and inarticulate.

The stern expression softens and he murmurs, "Shhh."

Eggsy whines, near sobbing, hands grabbing at the lapels of his suit. He has to--he has to finish him. He _has_ to. "Harry. _Harry, please_ ," He begs.

Harry hushes him some more, crowding in closer until Eggsy can't even look at Dean anymore. "You did so well--" The hand on his chest goes up to his neck, leather-gloved palm pressing down on his throat, a warning, and it makes Eggsy gasp before it moves on to his jaw and hovers up higher at the side of his bleeding face. "Now let me take care of it for you."

Unable to take the scrutiny, Eggsy gives in to closing his eyes and hiding his face down against the place between Harry's neck and shoulder. He breathes him in, frenzied and desperate. And with his mouth panting through layers of clothing just over Harry's collarbone, he doesn't know whether to scream or cry.

Eggsy ends up letting out a guttural mixture of both.

Trembling with deep anger and frustration, Eggsy's hands find their way to clench hard on the back of Harry's suit, and his hold on him probably hurts, but fuck that. Fuck everything.

Leather wrapped fingers make their way to the back of Eggsy's head as he shakes with agony, and the sensation of it leaves a heady buzz in their wake the further on they go through the short strands of his hair.

"Shhh. _Darling boy_ ," Harry croons against the side of his bleeding face, and Eggsy heaves anew, sobbing. Harry goes on, whispering nonsensical things and Eggsy just wants to hurt him as he catches some of the words. Words like ' _I'm truly sorry_ ', words like ' _I never should have left_ '.

He can eventually feel himself calming down, but Harry pulls away despite Eggsy's grabby hands and he can't help but start hyperventilating again as much as he tries to hold back.

Harry moves to the side, bending over to pick up something on the ground. It's only then that Eggsy sees Dean limping considerably far away, quietly trying to make his exit. Before Eggsy can feel the full fire of rage and open his mouth, Harry takes a few steps forward and throws something hard, something heavy and roundish.

It makes a sickening _crack_ as it comes in contact with Dean's upper back, propelling the bastard face down on the ground with a grunt.

A few seconds pass, and there's nothing.

Harry turns back towards him and Eggsy can only stare, a bit breathless at the sight of the blood around his jawline. Eggsy's blood.

"Did you kill him?" Eggsy swallows.

He immediately regrets opening his mouth when Harry stops, still a bit too far away from him, face neutral. "I would hope not. That would have been too easy."

Eggsy gravitates towards him regardless, slightly hobbling, unable to tear his gaze away.

"Should we bury him anyway?" He murmurs.

Harry's blank face gives way to something like astonished fondness. "No, Eggsy."

He says it like he's being ridiculous, but Harry takes a few steps closer and that's all that matters. He's taking his right glove off, and then his bare hand is hovering against the side of Eggsy's face again. This time, Eggsy slowly leans towards it, natural as breathing, still holding his gaze.

There's a brief expression of wonder on Harry, and for some reason Eggsy really likes it. Along with the thumb that's gently rubbing the drying blood off his cheek, mesmerising. "Tempting, though," says Harry, soft.

"Mmm." Eggsy closes his eyes.

 

* * *

 

 

Lestrade is called on to the scene first and the boy has Harry Hart's suit jacket on his shoulders by the time he gets there, the two of them sat on the short steps, side by side. He dubiously looks at the both of them after they tell their story, but what the hell. Might as well get this whole thing over with.

He double-checks each and every one of the four suspects' pulse again.

"Back-up and ambulance will be here in less than ten," Lestrade informs them. He can't help but wince looking at the blood on Gary Unwin's face. He's not even going to comment on the blood on Harry Hart...and how it's on his face too.

Fuck. _Not his division_.

It's worse when he realises he's got to face Michelle Unwin for this shit.

"I _said_ ," Lestrade enunciates, a bit impatient. "They'll be here soon."

He only gets a pair of blank, blinking expressions. Which at this point is really creepy.

"Hart," He clears his throat. "You might want to leave now."

That warrants a noise from Gary, who immediately shoots a look at the man. The boy gets an apologetic grimace in return as Hart stands.

Mumbling away, Gary starts taking the coat off from himself and Hart bends down to put a hand on his shoulder, whispering something quietly, leaning in and blocking Lestrade's view of the boy.

 _Christ_.

Lestrade looks up and away to the grey skies in desperation. The next time he chances a glance, Harry Hart has his suit back on, appearing too composed for someone who has blood on his face.

He gives Lestrade a polite nod before he walks away.

 

* * *

 

 

In the hospital, they cut off his track jacket with actual scissors. Which makes him protest in rage because first of all, there's a zipper right down in the middle and Eggsy can't even begin to understand the logic of what just happened. He may have gotten that for a sick deal in some charity shop but that was one of his favourites.

They ask him to wash his hands and arms before they treat the grazes. After picking the glass out of his face, they start sanitizing the whole thing, getting it ready for the stitches. Apparently, there's a deep gash on his left brow that can't be left up to chance and he tries not to worry about it. Five to seven stitches, she says. It doesn't seem so bad.

After the first stab of the needle though, he's already trying not to cry, eyes dangerously watering.

His mum can't even hold his hand because she's too busy frantically trying to get details from Inspector Lestrade in some other room. Not that he'd verbally ask to hold her hand. Eggsy's turning sixteen in September for fuck's sake. But if she was here, he's pretty sure she'd offer, and of course he'd take it. For now, he just settles for closing his eyes and tries to keep his breathing steady.

He's tired and in massive amounts of pain--and it's not just needle going through his skin, but the thread itself, every pull of it, slow and torturous. There's a certain kind of annoyance that builds up, a sort of _zing_ that shoots through his legs, making him want to desperately kick something. He settles for a hand clenching on the sheet behind him, hopefully barely noticeable.

There's a rustle of movement in the background and--

"Sir, you can't be here--" He hears his nurse say, and Eggsy's eyes blink open, head lazily turning that direction as far as the thread connected to his skin lets him.

"Oh, no. That's mine," He blurts in his exhaustion.

They both stare at him until he realises what he said, and Harry recovers first. "Family acquaintance."

"...and teacher," Eggsy adds. Because he's wearing what Eggsy calls his 'totally-not-suspicious-I'm-just-a-teacher' suit, completing the look with a folder in his right hand. Eggsy just rolls with it, nodding dutifully, "Mr. Hart."

"Mr. Unwin." Harry raises an eyebrow, and it brings back _everything_ that happened today. The shame hits Eggsy full force; the way he acted, how _frenzied_ he was, almost needy. Still, it doesn't stop the disappointing thought at how _clean and tidy_ he is now, and how Eggsy's blood isn't on him anymore and that's just--even worse. God. The sheer burn of it forces him to look down, and he tries not to flinch as his nurse turns his head back towards her.

"Hmm," It's even weird how Eggsy knows the man's frowning without having to look at him. "Is that going to scar, miss?"

"Tsk. Probably." She continues on pulling the thread down through his skin and Eggsy grits his teeth, closing his eyes again, trying not to curse at her. "Such a pity too with his pretty face. But hopefully it won't be too bad."

"Oi, I'm right here ya know," He tries, but he's too distracted. The way Eggsy is simply hyper-aware of him, his presence, how much closer he gets, step by quiet step--at the back of his mind, he knows this is going to be a problem.  

There's another moment where she pricks the needle down a really sensitive part of his skin and--

"Fu-- _shit_ \--" His fingers literally _crack_ as he drives his fist deeper down behind him, against the crumpled sheet and the shallow mattress he's sitting on.

"Woops," She chuckles, "I take it back. Some girls are into scars, you know. This might just go in your favour."

Eggsy bares his teeth. Whether or not she thinks that's a genuine smile he doesn't know, nor does he fucking care. He keeps his eyes closed despite it all and feels his right arm slightly shake at the strain of his fist. He knows he should calm down, but he can't help it. The anticipation of the next needle-prick has him on high alert.

At the sudden light warm contact on his fist, he tenses even more-- for barely a second-- and the hand is pulling away before he can fully relax.

Eggsy uncontrollably makes a sound of protest, eyes opening. At that, the nurse gives him a questioning look and he nods at her to keep going while he tries to be subtle about blindly searching for Harry's hand behind him. Eggsy hisses impatiently, managing to pass it off due to pain, and the warmth of Harry's left hand is back on his.

Since when did he start calling him Harry in his head? Fuck.

He clutches the hand in petty retaliation, but it only gives a light squeeze back, comforting.

"So, Mr. Hart..." Eggsy starts.

"Mmm," The murmur is soft behind him.

Shit. Abort, abort.

"Err..." He manages intelligently, ever so slowly getting halfway there in pulling his hand away.

"Ah, yes," Harry's hold on him abruptly strengthens before it relaxes. "I'm here about your new employment opportunities."

Eggsy squints at the ceiling, or else he'll end up squinting at his nurse's tits. "I'm narrowing my eyes suspiciously, if you can't see," He announces, absently holding on to a few of Harry's fingers, squeezing at every other grating thread pull.

"Well, considering your previous employer will be going to prison for drug charges and for almost strangling a man to death among other things," a slight pressure on his hand, "You might want to broaden your horizons."

"I'm rolling my eyes," He informs him, and he thinks he can see amusement on his nurse's face as they interact in front of her.

"You don't have to tell me when you're rolling your eyes. Trust me, I am well aware." The dry tone doesn't go as far, Eggsy thinks, when there's a certain kind of intimacy overpowering the situation. Of Harry Hart talking low, inches away from his ear behind him. And it's only then he realises, grip clenching, that he's ultimately ended up mindlessly intertwining their hands at some point.

Goddammit.

"Does my mum know?"

There's a light sound beside him and he glances down on the mattress to find the folder placed near his thigh. "I wanted to ask you first."

Eggsy is faced with a dilemma. If he looks over the file, he has to let go of Harry's hand. It'd look suspicious to his nurse if he reached over with his left hand, all the way from the other side.

He shouldn't be so needy. He shouldn't be.

Eggsy feels like he's thirteen again, dumb and clingy.

And so one by one he pries each and every finger away from in between Harry's. But not before the man cuts through his thoughts. "No rush. It can be discussed later. You've been through a rough ordeal."

His nurse makes an agreeing noise like she's not interrupting whatsoever. "On to the last few. Gonna have to tie it off, might hurt a tad."

"Ugh," Eggsy groans. He just wants it to end. A nice shower and a nap for ten years would be really good right now. Maybe then he'll be back to normal.

"Stop moving," She admonishes, and he tries not to be petulant about it.

Partly behind him, Harry is a steady form. So who's to blame if Eggsy leans back the last few inches, holds his hand tighter, and closes his eyes?

 

»»

 

Eggsy has to miss school the next day because of all the legal and medical procedures, and he spends his free time knocked out on the sofa for as long as he can until he gets interrupted by one of Lestrade's lackeys or Lestrade himself. But he's finally home, and that really means a lot to him.

It crosses his mind whether or not Mr. Hart is back in school. And yes, it's back to Mr. Hart. That was some relapse shit the other day. If anyone ever asks, he was in a high-duress situation. He wasn't responsible for his actions. At least some of it. He'll own up to choking Dean any day. Except he doesn't have to.

Mr. Hart took care of that. He was very insistent.

There's a lot of questions he wants to ask, but he knows he won't get any answers without setting the mood up first. So he just sleeps and sleeps.

He gets woken up gently, every shift of his body causing a wave of pain. Eggsy blearily looks up at his mum to see that she’s giving him that watery smile that he really hates. "What's wrong?"

She shakes her head, sitting down on the armchair. "Nothing."

He squints despite the ache. There's been talks of going to a shrink, highly recommended by Lestrade and doctors alike. Eggsy wonders if his mum's with them on that one. Either way, "I'm not goin' to a shrink."

His mum frowns. "I figured, but at least think about it, luv? You've been through a lot. As much as I'd like it to be me, I know there are some things a child can't tell their parents. It's always better to have someone to talk to, yeah?"

Eggsy curls up in his space on the sofa, trying not to get his mood soured. He rolls his eyes and drawls, "Well, there's always Mr. Hart."

She purses her lips at that, which, okay, did she not get the sarcasm?

"Speaking of Mr. Hart," The way she says his name makes him scrunch his nose. "He said something about a job?" She prompts, watching him carefully. Eggsy's eyes dart all over the place in an attempt to escape her gaze, and that's when he notices the same folder earlier on her lap.

Shit.

Fucking--They didn't get to talk about this part. He doesn't know what his mum knows about his involvement with Davy, and he doesn't know what Mr. Hart told her at all.

Eggsy isn't even sure she knows that the man's masquerading as a teacher at his school.

"Err," He begins, trying to think about it. Does he really want to tell her he might have a promising future in housekeeping?

"You already have a job at Sainsbury's, don't you?"

"Yeah, but--" _It wasn't enough 'cos you lost your other job and Dean and his goons are absolute scum,_ he doesn't say.

"You're barely sixteen, Eggsy," She says, gentle. "You don't need another job. Focus on your studies--your exams, yeah? I'm working hard on looking for a second job right now and I really think I'm gettin' somewhere with this one."

That's the thing. She shouldn't _have_ to look for a second job. They were doing pretty alright until Dean came along to screw them over. They just need to get back to that point again, if not past it, but he's not in a hurry to get to the second part. He just wants them to live comfortably and steady enough not have to worry about the next month's rent or bills.

"I don't like workin' at Sainsburys," says Eggsy, which isn't a lie.

"It's just a part-time job, luv. Every teenager's bound to have a crappy job they don't like workin' in," She quips.

"Mum, I'm only allowed to work two hours on school days and they barely pay me three quid per hour and it's hectic." He scowls.

"Well, that's--we all have to start somewhere?" She tries, and they both end up laughing despite how messed up that is.

When it dies down to a comfortable silence, Eggsy haltingly ventures, "I want to try. With him."

She bites her lip at the words, slowly opening the folder in front of her. "You can try it out. Just to see if you like it. No strings attached, yeah? Maybe you'll come crawlin' back to Sainsbury's." She sounds rather hopeful about that outcome and Eggsy tries not to roll his eyes. "I'm just sayin' you don't seem the bookshop type, luv. Plus, you'll always have that massage gig with Anna if you're ever interested. She can start givin' you some trainin' and you can get a spot for the apprenticeship at the spa once you're sixteen."

"Sorry, what?" Something has already made Eggsy pause. "Bookshop?"

"Yeah?" His mum starts to look confused, handing over the folder to Eggsy.

Eggsy stares at the first page, a job application for some private, second-hand bookshop. The postcode on the address is in SW7, and if he isn't wrong that's a large area somewhere underneath Hyde Park on the map, southeast from where he goes to school in Holland Park.

But--This isn't housekeeping.

"You didn't know it was in a bookshop?" His mum asks.

"Ah, no I just--I wasn't really payin' attention. He said he knew a few shop owners and he was gonna talk to them? I guess this is the only one available." He nods, agreeable, trying to ignore the odd sense of disappointment. "You know this could be good."

He gets a dubious look and he tries to defend himself, "I'm just sayin'. The bookshop could be quiet. Who needs books nowadays? So I could just study while I mind the shop until someone comes in?"

"Mmm, I suppose," She muses. "It's all up to you Eggsy. Just don't make rash decisions, okay?"

He can only smile at her. No promises.

Eggsy's not supposed to be in school the next day either. He's officially excused from it the whole week and possibly the next, depending on his next check-up.

But he sneaks in a few hours late, having to wait for his mum to leave the house. And by sneak in, he means hobble past the bewildered security guards near the entrance.

He just nods at them, winking despite the pain.

He's already missed Harry's-- _Mr. Hart's_ class this morning, and he really doesn't want to be seen all bandaged and bruised by other people, not if he can help it. Considering it's a Friday, it means the music instructor's left early, so no one's there when he picks the lock to the music room.

Actually, Eggsy doesn't even know if Mr. Hart's in the building, still playing teacher.

But last night, he wanted to call and ask what the hell was going on only to realise he left his Nokia and dagger in the man's suit jacket. He didn't know how else to contact him, so now of course he's here. There's only about three hours left before the second last period of the day, which Mr. Hart has free, meaning he has to stay in this dim room until then. He can't turn on the lights because someone might notice, but the room is technically soundproof--or so they say, and that's his excuse when he makes his way to the grand piano.

To be completely honest, he doesn't remember shit. But his body might, and so he sits down, unbuttoning his uniform jacket, and opens the fall-board, revealing the keys covered by a thin strip of cloth. He slowly takes his rucksack off and sets it down on the floor, mindful of his own injuries. Eggsy feels stupid doing this in the first place, but he has to know. He pulls the cloth and sets it aside, hands hovering over the pristine keys before gently touching down on them.

Testing, he presses a key, and its sheer volume in the empty room startles him, making him look around and wait to see if anyone's coming to scold his arse. A few minutes pass  and no one arrives. Eggsy loosens his tie. Maybe the room really is soundproof. Either way, he tries not to press down so hard when he tries again.

It takes him an hour or so and he thinks he can hear himself play a vague rendition of _Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star_. It's still a bit off-key here and there, but it's better than the shit he was doing before and he genuinely feels happy about it. And not just happy, but content. It makes him smile silly like a loser, he knows, but there's a sense of accomplishment despite it all.

The more he plays though, the more his fingers hurt, still sore from the punches he's pulled.

He sighs, stopping and staring down at the keys. Is there even something he's good at? Quinlan's good at computers, Roxy's good at kicking arse. Eggsy's just...always caught up in trouble. And where will that lead him? Will he ever get somewhere? Where is he gonna end up years from now? What will he be doing? Will he even be happy?

Eggsy tries not to laugh at the sudden existential crisis and puts the cloth back over the keys before closing the fall-board. He gingerly places his arms on the piano in front of him to pillow his head as he stares into nothing.

\---His whole body lightly twitches awake at a sound of a quiet _click_ and it's only instinct to be on-guard. He's torn between turning towards the noise and faking sleep. All he'd have to do is close his eyes.

But he doesn't.

Eggsy's completely serene by the time the soft footsteps get closer. The silhouette passes his line of sight to pull up a chair from the stack near the walls and walks back to gently set it down to face Eggsy's direction about ten feet away.

He sits down, and they stare at each other.

Mr. Hart's face is blank, but it isn't harsh. Eggsy blinks owlishly back at him and asks, voice quiet, "How'd you know I was here?"

"There were rumours of a sighting from the staff."

It doesn't matter how hushed and quiet they talk in this empty room, Eggsy thinks.

Because every word is close, tangible, and clear.

Intimate.

"...Doesn't explain how you got here. In the room."

"I looked for you," He says, simple, taking his glasses off and putting it somewhere inside his suit.

"And you just found me?"

"It seems I have a particular prowess in finding one Eggsy Unwin."

There isn't really anything he could say to that, so he settles for a hum.

He can feel himself drifting off to sleep again when the question comes. "Why are you here, Eggsy?"

"Oh," He takes a deep breath and sighs slow, minimally stretching out without moving too much at all, gently rubbing his face on the sleeve of his forearms, taking care not to get hurt. Eggsy barely remembers the question before looking back at him. "You."

"...Me?"

Eggsy squints, settling again and pillowing his head back on his arms. "Bookshop?"

"Ah," He looks away. "Yes."

"Is that--" Eggsy initially stops himself for the risk of sounding stupid, but he decides to go through with it anyway, watching closely. "Is that a cover?"

Mr. Hart's eyes snap back to his. "Cover?"

"Well," Eggsy grumbles, still observing from underneath his lashes. "I figured it would sound kinda dodgy if you told me mum I was gonna be your housekeeper, so I'd completely understand if--"

"No."

"No?"

Mr. Hart looks away again. "I've made adjustments. It's better this way. You're still injured after all. There's no use in making you do such things."

"But I can," Eggsy languidly protests, petulant. "I can do them."

There's a quick gentle smile, barely there, already gone. "No doubt about it."

"Then why?"

"Perhaps I've changed my mind."

It doesn't make sense, but somehow that answer feels like a rough rejection. At least that's how his body's taking it. He can feel his breathing change, his throat starting to close up, his eyes blinking in increasing frequency.

"...Huh."

Eggsy abruptly stands, the piano chair screeching backwards in time with the burst of pain all over his body. He manages to partly hold back the grunt, but it turns into a short huffing laugh that escapes Eggsy when he sees Mr. Hart reaching a hand towards him from where he's sitting, just a bit too far away. He notices that it makes the man sit back down instead of standing, the way he was about to.

"Have you filled out the forms?" Mr. Hart asks, eyes on the floor.

Eggsy pushes the chair closer to the piano with a foot, "Yeah."

"I can send it in for you."

Shaking his head, he bends down for his rucksack, hoisting it over his shoulder a bit too rough than necessary. "Nah."

He hobbles away as fast as he can.

"Eggsy."

"Bye."

" _Don't_."

There's something in it that stops him.

"Don't what?" He questions, looking back.

"Don't... _sulk_." Mr. Hart's rubbing his temple, eyes closed.

Eggsy tries not to give in at how _soft_ he seems. "I'm not sulking," he says instead, incredulous. "Why would I be sulking?"

Mr. Hart looks at him for a moment, and Eggsy does his best not to break at the subtle flicker of expressions behind his eyes.

"Fix your tie, Mr. Unwin. And your shirt. Button your blazer before you walk out that door."

Trying to hide his swallow at the commands, Eggsy scoffs. "I was leavin' anyway. I'm only here 'cos of you."

Shit.

There's a beat before Mr. Hart stands and straightens his suit, making his way towards him. Eggsy can't move.

Shitshitshit.

"Are you implying that I don't merit your efforts for proper dress?" He stops barely two feet away from Eggsy, their eyes locked. "Fix your uniform. I'm taking you home."

Eggsy's stomach flips at the words and he lowers his gaze down to Harry's throat instead as his hands shakily make their way to his tie. Goddammit.

His stupid cheeky mouth can't help it anyway. "Yours or mine?"

He doesn't get an answer and he chances a glance as he tucks his shirt back neatly under his trousers. Harry's looking down at his movements, face impassive. The moment Eggsy finishes, Harry's hands come up to lightly grab at his uniform jacket, buttoning his coat, gentle but efficient.

It takes his all not to sway into him.

Even as they walk side by side in the empty halls, the space between them far too noticeable to Eggsy. Harry gets on his mobile, and Eggsy's not all that interested in eavesdropping for some reason, feeling a bit chastised for everything.

At the entrance and security, Harry greets them, polite as ever, claiming, "I'm taking him home to his mother. He's not meant to be here."

The guards just roll their eyes and one of them says, "Good on you, Mr. Hart. I was wondering myself."

Ah, shit. Right. Mr. Hart, not Harry. Mr. Hart.

As they pass by the car park and on to the residential area street, Eggsy just follows his lead towards a cab, which is uncommon in these parts, so--

An oncoming black fancy-looking SUV catches his attention--mostly the tinted windows, really--but maybe he's just been watching too many action films.

Mr. Hart's pace goes a bit faster to open the cab door. Eggsy gets ushered in, and he almost squawks when the door is closed right after.

"Oi!"

"Take him here," He ignores Eggsy and orders the cabbie instead, handing over a slip of paper and fifty quid--which just brings back flashbacks that Eggsy doesn't have the luxury to dwell on.

"Harry--" He barks, but Eggsy gets distracted by the SUV that's parking itself right behind the cab. He watches as a really attractive professional woman gets out, voluminous hair and high heels. Damn. He'd totally have a go if--The woman makes her way towards Harry who's right outside the cab door, blocking Eggsy's view of things.

The whole thing makes him _bristle_ and he hears Harry say, "Anthea, what a surprise," in a bland tone before the cab moves.

After trying to get over the sheer anger, he realises that he's not heading home. Eggsy ends up being dropped off in a really familiar area, despite being there only once.

In front of him is a small second-hand bookshop, facing the road. Going from the name, it's the very same one he's supposed to be applying for.

He's on the main street near Harry's place.

Eggsy literally takes a few steps past the shop--five, maybe seven, and there it is, on his left:

The quiet, private street leading to Harry's house.

Harry _was_ taking him home.

Fuck.

He can't help but look back and forth between the shop and Harry's house. They're about thirty seconds away from each other, he's sure of it. Maybe significantly less if he sprints.

Eggsy can't help the stupid smile on his face.

 

\--

 

It would be rude to merely take a glance at his watch in such company, but Harry does it regardless. He's absolutely certain Anthea doesn't miss it. "In conclusion, Mycroft highly encourages you to desist in your irrelevant operation and do some actual work befitting your rank."

"Mr. Holmes is not my ultimate superior."

"But he is mine. And I follow orders, Mr. Hart. I'm simply relaying the message."

Harry nods, looking at the streets rushing by from the window. "Stop here."

She gives a signal and the car slows down to a halt.

"I take it this message has been thoroughly received, yes?" Anthea attempts to get him to confirm as he steps out.

"Indeed--and oh," Harry turns back, "I'd like you to relay a response, if that's not too much trouble?"

"Of course, do go on." She waits, and he holds her gaze as he speaks, dreadfully stoic.

"Notify him that if anyone approaches me again without absolute warning beforehand, there will be severe consequences. I implore him to have a line of replacements ready if he intends to send more personnel."

To her credit, she doesn't exactly flinch. Which is rather admirable, so he smiles, polite,

"That's all. Have a pleasant day."

He chooses to walk the rest of the way there to clear his head. When he passes by the bookshop, he glances through the windows, but Eggsy isn't there. Harry steps in, making his way to the main desk and asks the young lady, "My apologies, you didn't happen to see a young schoolboy in uniform did you?"

"Ah, yes," She huffs out a soft giggle, "He came in, browsed around, used the loo and left."

Harry frowns. Eggsy hasn't turned in his application yet. "Thank you, have a nice day."

Making his way to his house, he wonders if where Eggsy could have possibly gone. The boy could have taken the tube. But he's injured, and the amount of steps it would take to get the platform to begin with would have been surely painful.

He starts unbuttoning his suit as he makes his way past the foyer and--he stops.

Eggsy shifts in his place on the sofa, head lolling to the side. Harry simply stares until the boy abruptly wakes himself up, spotting him immediately and grinning. "Oh, hey."

"Did you just break in to my house?" It's a stupid question, but it's what leaves Harry's mouth.

"Well, you haven't exactly left me a key or anythin' so." He shrugs, obviously forgetting his injured state going by the flicker of pain in his expression.

Harry buttons his suit jacket back on and makes his way through the dining room for the kitchen. He hears the boy follow him, and he takes the chance to ask, "Why haven't you turned in your application?"

"Because."

It's the only answer he gets.

After turning on the kettle, he frowns at the inside of his fridge, looking for some acceptable food that could possibly satisfy a teenager.

"Do you even go grocery shopping?"

Harry closes his fridge and turns to see Eggsy leaning against the entrance to his kitchen, appearing quite judgmental and unapologetic with arms crossed and eyes narrowed. "Yeah, I snuck a peek at your fridge."

"That's--Mind your manners," Harry mutters, defeated. "I haven't had the time."

"M’kay. You should start a shopping list," He suggests, offhand.

Harry gets to the point as he makes some tea. "Go turn in your application before the shop closes."

"They close at nineteen hundred. I've just scouted the place--one cube of sugar for me, ta," He says the last bit rather snootily.

"You may want to refrain from using words related to your past criminal lifestyle," Harry humours him anyway, dropping a cube in Eggsy's cup.

"What? 'Scouted'? Oh sure, I've just _surveilled_ the area."

"You're rolling your eyes again." Digging through his pantry, Harry considers starting a shopping list indeed. Since when did he start running low on biscuits?

"...You can tell if I'm rolling my eyes. Can you tell if I'm smiling?"

 _Yes_ , Harry doesn't say. He turns around to find Eggsy sat on the counter. The proximity would startle him if he wasn't a better agent. "Counters are not for sitting, Eggsy," He chides instead. "That's what the chairs are for."

The boy's soft smile grows into a grin and he huffs out a "Yes, Harry," before enthusiastically getting off. The movement drives him closer to Harry, and before he manages to turn and walk away, Eggsy does a double-take, eyes zeroing in on the side of Harry's face. The levity is gone from his expression.

Eggsy sways in closer, hand reaching for his face, and Harry does his best not to flinch. "Is that--"

"It's nothing."

There's a noise of anguished discontent and Harry catches the boy's wrist but it's too late. His fingers have already reached the slight scabbing cuts around his jawline. Harry sees the moment it connects in Eggsy's mind. The boy's eyes go round and his mouth parts. " _Oh_. Oh, no."

"It's fine. Just a scratch."

"No--This was from the glass shards on the side of my face," Eggsy murmurs. "I'm sorry--"

"It's fine," Harry grips his wrists slightly harder for emphasis, and he thinks he can feel the pulse jump. He immediately lets go as if he's been burned. "I've had worse, Eggsy."

They go back to the living room and start in on their tea, a bit less warm than they'd like.

"So," Harry clears his throat. "You've surveilled the shop. What do you think?"

"It's alright. Nice books," Eggsy sips on his tea, stalling. "Spiders in the loo though. Dealbreaker for me."

Harry tries not to snort, merely shaking his head. "Does this mean I've got to find you a new place of employment?"

"Well, you might not have to. What's in yours?"

"Pardon?"

"Your loo."

Harry freezes.

"Oh my god," Eggsy gasps. "What--Mr. Hart, do you have something scandalous hidden in your loo?"

"You haven't 'snuck' a peek?" Harry narrows his eyes.

"No! I took a kip on the sofa the moment I got in."

He starts to stand.

"Eggsy, wait."

The boy halts, but there's a mischievous look on his face before he takes off sprinting despite his injuries.

Harry doesn't even have to go after him at the same speed because Eggsy stops, looking pained and slightly embarrassed as he turns to him.

"Where _is_ the loo?"

Rolling his eyes, Harry blocks the proper door with his whole body. "Now Eggsy, you have to understand."

"Understand what?" He asks, giddy and incredulous. He's practically bouncing on his feet in front of Harry.

Harry sighs and moves aside despite all logical reason. Well, considering it from a different angle, maybe the boy won't be so attached after this. It's only these past few days that Harry has begun to realise it.

The outcome of this...meeting would leave him scot-free. _Literally_ Scot-free, if one thinks about the raging hell Merlin would raise if he realises the sheer inadvisable tangle of mess Harry's got himself into for this boy.

Eggsy goes to push the door open and--there is an impressive moment of silence.

" _What the fuck_?"

Harry sighs again and walks into the loo.

The boy turns to him, wide-eyed and slack-jawed. " _Harry_ , what the actual fuck?"

"One of the reasons why I realised it was a bad idea having you work for me in my house."

Eggsy scrunches his injured face and looks back at Mr. Pickle, bewildered. "You could have just taken him out?"

"No, Eggsy. Mr. Pickle is important," Harry proclaims with as much dignity anyone could have at this moment, sniffing.

The boy gives him a look of disbelief, and Harry tries to explain it better.

"He's been a part of my life for a good twelve years or so, and the point is--He's important to me. Why would I have to _hide_ him in my _own_ house? Why should I have to be embarrassed?"

Head held high, Harry turns to him, and he's genuinely surprised at the growing understanding on Eggsy's expression. "Yeah, but don't you have, you know...friends? Guests?"

"Sometimes," Harry frowns. "The very few close friends that I do have are aware of Mr. Pickle's importance, and while they may tease me about it every now and then--they understand."

"Mmm," Eggsy nods. "Yeah, but what about--" He stops, biting his lip.

"What about what?"

"Oh. Yeah, right. There's prolly an en-suite in the master's huh?" He huffs, mumbling as he moves to leave.

Harry fails to see why that's of any importance. Glancing back at Mr. Pickle, he takes the opportunity to pat him on the head while the boy has his back turned.

"Tea's cold," Eggsy announces the moment Harry catches up with him in the living room.

"Mmm. Is there anything else to discuss?"

Eggsy looks at him, a bit shrewd, and it's unsettling, "That depends. What else you've got hidden in your house?"

Harry keeps his face blank as he suffers the cold tea.

The boy goes on, dialect shifting, "Skeletons in your closet, perhaps?"

This time Harry does snort, briefly looking away. "Another time, Eggsy. Another time."

"Mmm," Eggsy looks down at his own hands, expression gentle with a slight smile. "Alright."

Harry does his absolute best to look away. But sometimes the best isn't good enough. "It might be better to hand in your application at the very least two hours from the closing time," He murmurs. "Makes a better impression, don't you think?"

"Yeah," Eggsy says quietly, standing up with his rucksack and making his way to the door. Harry follows. It's only polite after all.

Eggsy turns before he manages to get outside. "Oh, right," He searches for something in his pocket and fishes out a handful of money. "Your change."

"How are you going to get home, Eggsy?"

"The tube?" He answers, sounding rather puzzled as if there could be any other way.

"No, Eggsy."

" _Oh_ \--No, Harr-- _Mr. Hart_ ," Eggsy shoves the hand full of money at him but Harry doesn't take it.

"Eggsy, please. Get home safe."

There's something about those words that make the boy go still before he huffs, shaking his head.

"Silly rich people. Bonkers."

Harry genuinely tries not to be charmed.

"Goodbye, Eggsy."

 

 


	15. 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> THIS IS A COMPLICATED TANGLE OF MESSSSSSSSSSS:
> 
> -Harry's no good, boring, very long day at work. Why can't he catch a break?  
> -Lying to friends, B&E, Hits and Misses.  
> -So.much.GEN  
> -And PHONE CALLS.  
> -And CONFLICT. i hate it  
> -Did I mention...LYING TO FRIENDS???  
> Also...beginnings of weird domesticity.

 

Merlin smoothly intercepts him in one of the HQ hallways, and side by side they walk in silence until he speaks, "You have a private meeting with Arthur tomorrow at seventeen hundred."

"Yes."

"Why?"

Harry stops, only giving him a blank expression. It should be enough to get the point across.

"Your trust issues hasn't been this bad since that Athens mission back in oh-four," Merlin remarks. His tone is impassive, but Harry can't help but get the sense that he's just hurt one of the very few closest friends he has left. And so begrudgingly, he finds a way to satisfy his curiosity.

"It's an inter-agency issue," Harry sighs.

Merlin watches him carefully. "Yes, there's been a lot of that lately."

"Exactly. There shouldn't _be_ any in the first place," He grimaces. "Now if you'll excuse me, I have reports to finish before tomorrow. We'll speak again soon."

The moment he enters his office, he securely stows his glasses away in his desk drawer, not wanting to be disturbed. If anyone wants his attention, they’re going to have to physically come over to do so.

He's buried in paperwork a few hours later when there's a knock on his door. At his permission, Amelia enters, bringing with her a tray of tea and biscuits. Harry tries to keep his mouth closed.

This is not standard procedure. She's an intern. From _R &D_. There is absolutely no reason to bring him a tray of tea and biscuits. It is not in any way part of her duties. At all.

Harry regards the display, face blank. To his trouble, she only smiles as she makes her way towards his desk. He contains himself from shifting uncomfortably in his seat and returns the smile instead.

"You're a long way from R&D, Amelia."

"That I am, Agent Galahad." As she sets the whole thing down on his desk, she pulls out her clipboard hidden right underneath the tray. "May I take a seat?"

Ah, so it is business after all.

"Please," Harry gestures, automatic, and she sits on the chair, neatly adjusting her long skirt.

Clearing his throat, he pours the tea in the cups, offering Amelia her share. "What brings you here?"

She drinks her tea and Harry obligingly follows suit, not wanting to fill the silence.

Merlin's suggestion plagues his mind and it only gets worse the longer she stays. Part of being a good agent is evaluating all your options, no matter how distasteful they can be. The fact that the corner of his mind wanders and actually considers taking her out to dinner brings a hint of despair that pulls at the pit of his stomach.

Putting down his cup, he moves on to shuffling his mess of paperwork.

"No worries. I'll be quick." She humours him with another quick smile before busying herself with the clipboard. "Ah, now, here we are: Wednesday, the sixteenth of May, two-thousand and seven..."

Harry senses his whole body go still for a brief second, but he genuinely doubts she notices. "Yes?"

"Your Rainmaker deployed an amnesia dart," Amelia meets his gaze. "And going by the log from the Armoury, you reloaded at least three cartridges for your watch the next day."

They blink at each other in the silence.

"Well," Harry starts slow. "What would you like me to say?"

"The truth."

Her calm expression holds no malicious intent, only a genuine expectation for an answer.

Harry observes her carefully, head slightly tilted. "Are you investigating me, Miss Hooper? You did go out of your way to check through Armoury records, after all."

She reaches for a biscuit, and he mirrors her particular choice.

"Not quite. I simply like to think of myself as thorough."

"Who else is privy to this information?"

"No one." She picks at the crumbs that's fallen on her skirt. "No one's connected the dots. They were too busy with other more important matters."

Harry doesn't really let himself relax despite his cool exterior.

"And yet you caught it. What is your intention regarding this information?"

"Confirmation."

"Confirmation of what?"

"Your activities."

"My activities..."

"'Fighting crime', was it?"

"Ah, yes. That."

They're at a standstill once again, until she huffs, pouring some more tea in her cup. "I merely need to know I'm doing the right thing, if I'm to go through with deleting such data from the system altogether, Agent Galahad..."

Amelia drinks her tea and Harry leans back on his chair, flabbergasted. Surely he must have heard her wrong.

"...I mean, nothing is _completely_ erased. I'm not as good as Sir Merlin just yet, but he'll only find it if he knows what he's _specifically_ looking for. And as of right now I genuinely doubt he's even aware. The data has been invisible to all eyes since I caught it."

He can only stare at her, partly dreading the answer to his question. "Why?"

The struggle not to roll her eyes is plainly visible. "Please, I'm not here for blackmail. I'm an outstanding candidate. Do you even know how I got into Kingsman?"

Humouring her, Harry recites the procedures, "Internships are through high demonstrations of proficient skills and an approved recommendation, in addition to layers upon layers of strenuous background checks among other things."

After the first incident in R&D, he had pulled her personnel file. However, he only had the time to glance through it considering he was preoccupied with the problem of trying to find Mr. Baker and his associates while also trying to keep Eggsy safe and out of trouble.

"Mmm." She nods. "And do you know who recommended me?"

"...Merlin." Harry answers, running through all the possibilities as to why she'd go so far in practically betraying her sponsor. "Why...?"

He tries to recall her profile. Amelia Grace Hooper, fluent in German and French. A bachelor with Honours in Engineering from Cambridge, specialising in Information Science and Computer Engineering. Spent a few summers in ETH Zürich for courses instead of taking holidays. A MSc in Electronics from the University of Edinburgh. Divorced parents, a nurse and a businessman. Older sister, Mary Margaret Hooper, fresh out of medical school, currently taking her foundation programme. One cat. No known romantic attachments--- _Edinburgh._

No. That's--It can't be.

That's just preposterous.

Harry can't help but grimace regardless. "Edinburgh."

Amelia raises an eyebrow. It almost looks encouraging. And so Harry continues, slow and cautious:

"The University of Edinburgh is less than sixty miles away from St. Andrews University."

For a moment, she only purses her lips. After a few seconds, she gives a small lopsided smile. "Quinlan sends his regards to an 'Uncle' Galahad. Would it be facetious of me to assume that's you?"

It takes Harry a considerable amount of effort not to lean far back in his seat and put both hands on his face to groan in agony.

"What--"

"I met him again during my year in Edinburgh."

"Again?"

"He ran away when he was younger. Our paths crossed." She gives a little shrug. "Don't get the wrong idea. I don't feel like I owe him much, so I tend to ignore his suggestions--I do have some pride. I wouldn't be at Kingsman if I didn't deserve to be here. I'm not the kind to do favours. At all." Her head is held high, but something flickers through her features. "However, I've been asked to take care of this incident, to keep it from Sir Merlin to get you out of trouble. It has been claimed that this was a matter of great importance. The word 'please' was actually used. And if you know Quinlan, he'd rather be held at knife-point than genuinely say such things--that is, separate from situations requiring the bland habit of social conformity."

Harry is still reeling at this whole situation, and her wry expression morphs into something more serious.

"I just need to know what I'm going to do next, if I'll be doing the right thing."

He stares at her.

"Fighting crime?" She prompts, back to business.

"...Fighting crime." Harry cautiously confirms.

Amelia nods, slow. "Would this have something to do with the police reports that Quinlan himself has tampered with? Reports regarding three school leavers who woke up not remembering anything and a man currently in an ICU?"

"...Yes," He answers haltingly, brows furrowing. "Tampered how?"

"He's rendered it so that the files disappear from the database if accessed through certain servers and devices. Momentarily invisible," She discloses. "However, even to me, some parts of it are redacted. Like names and physical descriptions--especially in regards to the 'victim'. Any information even remotely close in helping me figure out that aspect is heavily expurgated."

Harry is torn between letting out a sigh of absolute relief at this fact versus tensing at her curious tone.

Regrettably, despite the opportunity for the easy way out, Harry is a Kingsman first and foremost. No matter how brilliant an individual, if they are easily swayed to do things such as delete records from an international intelligence organisation for any reason--that's a liability. "Amelia, you are aware that with the position you have undertaken within this organisation, there are matters of secrecy and loyalty involved--"

"I haven't broken the confidentiality clause, Agent Galahad." She appears calm, but her spine is straighter. "I don't speak to anyone about my work. Not even Quinlan. I only receive... _anonymous_ messages imploring me to do this or that. They aren't orders to be followed. They're merely suggestions."

"Anonymous?" Harry repeats sceptically, and Amelia does a slight shrug, actually managing to look genuinely innocent.

"It's not often, but there are instances that I come home to find my personal laptop hacked. Which I _assure_ you, is no easy task," She informs him, stern. "Regardless, the messages are there without signature."

"But you've mentioned Quinlan," He reminds her.

"With all due respect, who else is skilled enough to go against me? Plus, his word placements and vocabulary are somewhat familiar. On purpose, I gather. His work is near flawless. Definitely not perfect, mind you. But close," She sniffs, almost begrudging. "And in the rare occasion that we do make contact in real life, via mobile or internet, we never speak of it. But I know. And he knows I know. Especially that matter with the police reports. He'd be a fool to underestimate me, and I, him."

This whole thing could be easily unraveled, taking all of them down. Merlin may be a good friend, but if all is revealed--it will look bad, Harry knows. This predicament, this _betrayal_ \---from Harry, his friend, from Quinlan, his son, from Amelia, his candidate---Merlin cannot possibly understand this mess and why Harry's involved in the first place. Harry doesn't even know it himself, and truthfully, he has a sense that he may not want to either.

He purses his lips. "Doesn't Merlin already know that you're connected to his son?"

"No, not at all," She answers confidently. Which makes no sense. How could Merlin have recommended her if--"I've always suspected that Quinlan must have put me on his father's radar somehow. Not too obvious, of course. Just enough to register on it, barely scraping through the surface. It was a chance. It could have easily gone the other way. That's why, as I've said, I don't really feel like I owe Quinlan _much._ My achievements are my own, after all."

Amelia slowly breathes in deep, and continues: "...As are my choices. They are also mine."

He doesn't look away from her steady gaze. It's tempting to easily lie and manipulate her in some sort of way. It would be _slightly_ challenging. She's aware of his capabilities, his skillset, and she's bright and level-headed. But he could do it, he knows. He could do it for Eggsy.

"I cannot disclose the specifics, Amelia," Harry confesses. "I also cannot ask you to risk your promising career for my selfish..."

Needs? Is that the proper word to use?

He trails off, unable to finish the sentence.

Amelia speaks up. "There are worse operatives who abuse their power, Agent Galahad. Vigilantism is hardly at the top of the list. However, I just need a bit more information to be convinced. Some context, some evidence--"

Harry shakes his head. "If you've read the reports you'd know about three delinquents bound for a harsh life of escalating crime. You'd know about a devious low-life who shouldn't be allowed to freely roam around the face of the earth. What you don't know is that there's a person, safe and healing from injuries. A person who has so much potential and so much to experience. A person who deserves..." He stops himself, biting his tongue at the strange direction his monologue has gone to and the _something_ that has flickered past Amelia's expression. "That's all I can really say. It's all up to you."

There's a moment of silence and Harry returns to arranging his paperwork, hopefully signaling an end to this whole conversation.

Amelia hums, and he tries to ignore it.

"So, you don't care if I make the data visible again," Her tone is difficult to analyse; It's detached, but it also seems testing, in a way. "You don't care if someone will figure it out."

He looks up from his desk. Amelia's watching him, face blank.

"Of course, I care," He says.

"...but?"

There really isn't an answer to that.

Harry shrugs, eerily serene.

Again, something passes through her features, and her head tilts up a fraction as if she's finally figured something out.

He glances back down at the documents he has to deal with, pursing his lips. He's slightly displeased at the possibility that he might have to stay past midnight. He palms through some of the papers scattered on his desk, trying to get a feel for where his stamp might be. "Was that all, Amelia?"

"...Yes."

Harry looks up once more to give her a proprietary smile. "Thank you for the tea and biscuits."

It indeed turns out to be a really long day, with few breaks in between to eat the biscuits left on the tray and to shoot at the training range to spend the restless energy he has built up, or else he'll end up with seized muscles from staying at his desk for too long. Regardless, he's confident that the very few documents he has left to finish will be done in the morning before the meeting with Arthur.

As he prepares to leave HQ and secures his office door, he notices Percival and Lancelot...loitering about. There really isn't a better word for it. It's a suspicious sight: Two experienced operatives, without their glasses, merely standing there, facing each other and presumably communicating non-verbally in an empty hallway. Harry would even resort to using the word 'awkward'.

Considering that his office is practically the last one in this particular hall to be occupied at this hour, he clears his throat, "Yes?"

Lancelot nudges Percival, and he gets a glare for it before Percival turns to Harry, dignified. "Galahad."

"Yes," He says again, and sensing their discomfort, he offers, "Do I need to unlock my office?"

Percival nods. "If that's not too much trouble."

"We won't keep you long," Lancelot adds in, placating.

It's odd seeing him in such a hushed and serious temperament. This must be important.

They all settle in his office and Harry motions for them to start.

"As you know, Kingsman is our life..." Percival begins.

Harry nods.

"...and nothing really could possibly get in the way of us being at its disposal."

Harry tries not to reveal his impatience, but he prompts, "However...?"

At Percival's silence, Lancelot huffs and rolls his eyes at him.

"We've put in a leave request for the next week. After about two years of boarding school, not coming home on the weekends, only on the winter holidays and a few weeks in the summer---" He emphasises, shooting Percival a stern look, "--Our girl has finally decided that she wants to grace us with her presence for the half-term."

"...And, is there an issue with HR?" Harry frowns. "You both are upstanding, dedicated agents with more than enough accumulated leave time."

"Exactly," Lancelot eagerly agrees. "And not HR, not directly. Arthur, on the other hand..."

Ah.

Percival cuts in, "His reasons are understandable, it was a bit of short notice--"

"There hasn't even been a high-stakes concrete mission assigned to us during _that_ particular week, and we’ve put in the request two weeks ago, that should have been enough time," Lancelot counters.

The room grows silent.

Harry speaks up, "What are Arthur's conditions?"

"Well, he said that the request _might_ go through if someone were to take both our places if any mission comes up," Lancelot hedges. "And, as mentioned, we don't have any high-stakes operations lined up. In fact, it was only _after_ we've put in the request that we were assigned to some domestic surveillance. And you know how that usually goes."

"We understand if you decline," Percival says, the straight posture giving himself away despite the calm appearance.

For a moment, Harry regards the both of them. Of all the people these two could have come forward to, they chose him. While he might be willing to die for his fellow agents (he'd rather not, but if needs must, he's willing in that begrudging sort of sense) Harry's not exactly known for being _overly_ social and generous. Which begs the question of why. But then he remembers being one of the people who didn't vote for their immediate retirement when they decided to take responsibility for a child together.

Considering they were collectively an odd number at the time, Harry's choice was the deciding vote. Harry would have opted to be neutral, but apparently neutrality was not a viable option in such scenarios. In complete honesty, he merely felt that it wasn't worth his energy to have raised his hand or spoken up. It had been a long tiresome day, after all, having just come back from a month-long mission, dealing with debriefs and medical.

Obviously, people interpreted his lack of interest as far from it.

In an alternate universe where he had cared enough, his reason would have been that it was illogical to let two highly skilled agents go for something other Kingsman agents were allowed to have. Especially one of them who could have easily been his candidate. And that there--that was something to think about. It was truly a waste then, for James Spencer to actually have 'beaten' Lee Unwin to the position of Lancelot, only to be retired because of a simple thing such as family.

Now, looking back at having met their outstanding child a few times over the years, he finds that despite the initial discomfort, he truly didn't mind having to pick her up at school (coincidentally less than a ten minutes’ walk from his house) when Lancelot and Percival were both held back by missions gone wrong in different countries. It was a situation that didn't happen _often_ , but enough that it got to the point that she had started calling him 'Uncle' Galahad.

"You haven't exactly asked anything of me to decline," Harry finally says.

As he goes home later that night, there's an odd sort of trepidation. He's invited Merlin over to clear the air and dispel any suspicions, to assure him that nothing is wrong.

Which is true. There isn't. Not anymore.

Harry just needs to wrap up his mission and get ready to leave Holland Park.

The moment he enters his house however, a few paces in, he's faced with his sofa and he stops. It's empty, of course, but Eggsy inhabited it a few days ago, and Harry never really sat on that particular space. For some reason, he worries that Merlin might be able to tell somehow. And so Harry takes a quick shower, puts on his pyjamas and his robe before making his way back downstairs with a lint roller and a freshener spray.

Sure enough, on closer inspection, a few short strands of dark blond hair are dispersed on the sofa where Eggsy had laid his head back. And it's not as if the boy had left a bad smell but Harry has to regrettably spray a spritz or two of the freshener anyway, just to be safe. He goes on to spray some more in random directions within the house to draw suspicion away from the sofa.

It strikes him belatedly how ridiculous he's being, as if he's done something wrong.

He hasn't.

The doorbell rings just as he stows away his cleaning materials under the kitchen sink, and he makes a mental note to get them before he heads upstairs to bed.

When Harry opens the door, Merlin immediately enters and hangs his coat on the rack before heading straight to the bar.

After ensuring the lock is secure, Harry follows. "I'm starting to think you only tolerate me and this friendship for my vast collection of alcohol."

"Quite right, quite right," Merlin absently murmurs as he tries to decide between the wine and gin.

"Correct me if I'm wrong, but don't you earn as much as I do?"

"I threw out my own collection the moment I had a problematic genius under my care. No use of having a problematic, _alcoholic_ genius."

"Ah," Harry affects a mild attitude, as if he hasn't been consorting with said problematic genius, "You mean the one currently five, six hundred miles away?"

"Distance doesn't lessen the damage that lad is capable off," He grimaces, choosing the ghastly vintage scotch instead, finding it hidden behind all the other bottles.

Harry gives in to staring incredulously as he sits on a barstool. "Are you telling me you're pooling all your money for reparations just in case he blows something up?"

Merlin mutters something too low to hear, pouring a drink for himself before fully deflecting. "Enough about me. What's your problem?"

"What?"

He pointedly looks to where Harry has been absent-mindedly kneading the muscles on his own leg.

"Oh," Harry frowns at the realisation, taking his hand away. "You know how it goes. Mission too slow."

Merlin looks as if he's debating not to speak. "You are aware that's a problem, yes?"

Harry scowls. "It's not as if I'm that old. No need to be forcing retirement on me just yet, Merlin. I merely need to stop being so stagnant."

"That's exactly why it's a problem. You need to be constantly on the move. High-stakes, fast-paced missions--It's easy to get addicted."

"I'm not some twenty year old adrenaline junkie," He protests. "I simply--" He stops and huffs a sigh.

"It's not just you. Unfortunately, this isn't uncommon. Some agents like to keep having those type of assignments one after another so they won't have to think about it. Because stopping, that's when the pain becomes harder to ignore."

"Is this the part where you give me medical advice despite you having dropped out of medical school? Because where was this advice three decades ago?"

Merlin only takes it in good stride, smirking. "I know you're not fond of exercise outside of HQ, but consider a power stroll around wherever for at least forty-five minutes. Presumably in the very early mornings, before rush hour."

"Christ," Harry rolls his eyes, muttering lowly under his breath and reaching for his own choice of liquor.

They spend a few seconds nursing their drinks in comfortable silence.

"...What is this meeting with Arthur?" Merlin finally asks, demeanour more serious.

"That depends, where are your glasses?"

Merlin arches an eyebrow. "In its specialised soundproof case, if that's what you're worried about."

Harry takes a moment to let the issues wash over him, and he hedges, "Do you remember what they promised us during recruitment and training?"

"They promised us many things. It's not as if they've explicitly gone against them."

"Well, alright," Harry reconsiders his words. "Not so much promise, but _entice_."

Merlin squints, putting his drink down. Harry doesn't get an answer, and so he barrels on, reciting familiar words, "The best thing about Kingsman is that it's an _independent_ international intelligence agency operating at the highest level of discretion. Without the politics and bureaucracy that _undermine_ the intelligence of government-run spy organisations."

"Hmm."

"I'm not saying I don't see the appeal of inter-agency work. But are we not supposed to be above that? And I don't intend that in a pompous way, merely--the _purpose_ of Kingsman, its _efficiency_ , is at its peak if the principle is adhered. Do you follow?"

Frowning at his scotch, Merlin nods. "Aye, but what then? What if this is simply how it's meant to be. The world is changing after all. Global interdependence."

"That's what we have our _own_ branches all over the world for. We operate best unknown and undetected, even from other agencies," Harry insists. "There's always going to be politics--that is unavoidable. Whether one is involved in this line of work or is a civilian with a menial job in the shops, there's always a chain of command and there are always people taking sides in the hierarchy. It's a given. _However_ , that issue for us becomes problematic at an exponential rate if there's another set of politics to be entangled with. Ones we can avoid."

Harry waits for some reaction, but Merlin only furrows his brows. "This is what you've been...occupying yourself with?"

"What?"

"You've been off these past few months," Merlin states, offhand.

Harry grits his teeth. "I've been pushed into working with MI6 for almost two years and for some demented reason, Mycroft Holmes wants me to stay in that course of action. It's quite clear from the way he's been hounding me through his lackeys when I've only just started backing away from the whole ordeal," Gathering some genuine frustration, he pushes on, "So yes, I'm a _bit_ off. If you want a psychological assessment of my current state of mind: I'm a _tad_ haggard and suspicious, prone to keeping to myself due to a heightened sense of trust issues. Therefore, if you find that my files and surveillance feeds are highly encrypted, don't worry about it. It's just a bit of extra security."

In the end, Harry worries he may have just overdone it by a _bit_ , but Merlin haltingly nods, watching him carefully. "And what do you intend to tell Arthur? Are you just going to march in there and give him orders? Many already suspect he's favouring you to succeed in his place but that doesn't mean you can simply--"

"Him favouring me doesn't mean anything. It's up to Kingsman as a whole in the end as to who they choose. And believe me, Merlin, I have no ambition for administrative duties or dealing with that type of bureaucracy."

"I understand completely where you're coming from," Merlin holds his gaze, serious and imploring. "But this meeting with Arthur and raising this issue...it would be unwise."

Harry works to unclench his jaw, "And what do you propose I do instead?"

"What you always do, Harry. Follow orders."

Taken aback, Harry stares at Merlin, feeling his own expression close up.

Merlin backtracks. "Well, you don't _always_ follow orders, I would know. You're insolent, unorthodox, inclined to a _particular_ kind of violence, and frequently tardy--but in the end, more often than not, you successfully complete your missions. The point is that you stick with the field, Harry. You don't engage yourself in these causes and put yourself in the line of bureaucratic fire. Especially not with Arthur. You may not have ambitions, but he does."

Unfortunately, this is something Harry has always known. "My life has always been about Kingsman. I can't just sit back and watch it...devolve."

"Wait your turn," Merlin encourages. "Your time will come, and when you sit at the proverbial throne, you can change things."

"What part of 'I have no ambition' do you not comprehend? Even if I did, how long would it take and how much damage would have been done then? We can't just amnesia dart a few government agencies, can we?"

Merlin shakes his head and tries to console him. "Maybe this isn't much of an issue as you're making it out to be."

Pursing his lips, Harry nods. "Maybe."

Instead, they move on to talk about possible missions to undertake after he finishes up the one he's currently dealing with.

Harry still has to pay Dean Baker a visit in the ICU ward in four hours.

 

\--»

 

Eggsy dreams of a set of hands, familiar and warm. Large, with fingers spread wide on his chest, heat burning through the thin layer of his shirt.

It's a sensation he still feels when he wakes.

He doesn't even try to pretend he doesn't know whose hands they were.

Blinking in the dark of early morning, Eggsy thoughtlessly puts his own hand against his chest, over the same spot where the phantom heat is fast dissipating. His other hand blindly feels for the pen and the journal he's prepared on the bedside table the night before.

Scribbling away, he barely notices himself falling back to sleep.

In the daylight, he barely spares his journal a glance, immediately closing it before even getting to read the shitty handwriting. Maybe it's shame, or maybe he's just not ready; He thinks that someday, there'll be a time in the future when he reads everything he's written in the bloody thing all in one go and have a laugh at it.

When Eggsy comes back to school on the middle of the fourth week of May, Miss Faruti is back. And the thing is, Miss Faruti ain't a bad teacher. She's nice and inspiring and passionate and all that good stuff.

But she ain't Harry Hart.

Eggsy keeps his face impassive and tries not to be disappointed.

His classmates definitely fail at it from the way they're not even hiding their hushed whispers as they lean over each other's desks, wondering what happened. Eggsy doesn't know what the hell they were expecting though, the bloke was a _supply_ teacher. It was bound to happen.

The chatter about Davy and his pals getting locked up was a hot topic to begin with, and the fact that Eggsy's come back with stitches in his left brow and a couple of bruises and scabs threw the rumour mill into high gear--that is, until Marie Lutton from Year 12 vomited in one of the hallways, bringing notice to the possibility that the extra weight she's been putting on may or may not have been a baby bump after all.

Obviously, that don't distract Jamal and Ryan. And Eggsy honestly has no idea what to say. They're giving him space, yeah, but it's kind of like some form of silent treatment, with stares that seem to accuse betrayal in that passive-aggressive sort of way. It's something that's just a bit too hard to ignore.

Eggsy tries to start a conversation during lunchtime, all upbeat. "Well, I'm quittin' Sainsbury's."

"Oh yeah?" Ryan could sound a bit more interested, really.

"Yeah--I mean, I applied for something else and they said everything looks pretty good. They're just waiting for the employment permit to come through and all that. How's your apprenticeship goin', Jamal?"

"S'alright." Jamal shrugs.

The atmosphere dies down to stilted silence all over again.

For fuck's sake.

Eggsy chomps on his bland sandwich in a hurry and excuses himself. In the library, he finds an unoccupied spot in the corner and sets his rucksack down before walking by the shelves, trailing his fingers over the spines. He's not really looking for anything. He knows where the GCSE and the AS/A-level reference workbooks are, so really, he's just wasting time instead of studying like he's supposed to.

There's no point in delaying the whole thing, so he forces himself to think about the lies he's probably gonna tell his friends. It has to be believable, obviously, balanced in a way that's gonna leave no room for alternate interpretations. Something that doesn't include Harry Hart, and something that'll inevitably make him look stupid.

This is something he and Harry had gotten down before Lestrade even got to the scene.

It's a story that goes like this: Disillusioned teenager tries to bring down his mum's abusive, drug-dealing ex-boyfriend by pretending to be interested in a small time amateur crime ring that would eventually lead to said abusive, drug-dealing ex-boyfriend.

Harry had insisted that it would help him be absolved of any crime he's committed during his involvement with Davy and his pals if they ever thought to turn on him.

The story dwells on the 'fact' that Eggsy had called Lestrade as their stint went into play and that the group had found out about it. Thus, the breakout of violence.

For some reason Lestrade collaborated on this, even apologised for being too busy to take the call and getting there too late.

The thing is, Eggsy didn't do shit.

Either way, he's still really tempted to tell this story. It's practically seamless. But it doesn't feel right, considering that would paint him worse than snitch, and that's a _narc_.

Whatever he's gonna tell his friends, it's gotta be close to the official story and easy to remember but not easily confused with the other. So yeah, something that'll make him look stupid. But not too stupid that Jamal and Ryan would be _too_ suspicious.

Eggsy huffs and nods to himself, deciding to go where the practice books are. He ain't in a hurry, considering he's studied a lot when he was stuck at home with his injuries. Among the hushed conversations in the library though, something catches his attention. He immediately scans for the group that uttered Harry's name. Hidden behind shelves, Eggsy slowly makes his way closer.

"--where do you think? Probably Notting Hill. Close by. Posh."

Peeking through the space, he sees a group huddled together making a shitty attempt at homework, distracted by the enigma that is Harry Hart and the possibility of everything about him outside of work.

Eggsy holds back a snort, chest puffing up in a great sense of pride. He knows things they don't. Like where the man _actually_ lives. Like how he smells up close. Like how he has a dead dog displayed in his toilet.

Fuck, he's weird.

A familiar voice cuts through the whispers, "Wouldn't you like to know?"

The smirk on Eggsy's face turns into bitter distaste as he confirms that it's Yvonne talking. She's checking her nails as she writes on paper with her other hand.

Magnificent bitch.

"You talk like you _do_ know, Yvonne," One of the guys say.

"Maybe I do." She looks at him, batting her eyelashes.

A round of ' _oooo_ ' goes around the small table, and it makes Eggsy bristle. Thankfully, the librarian shushes them with a glare.

It doesn't really stop them though.

"D'ya fuck him, 'Vonne?" Gracie asks when the librarian's turned away. Eggsy's fingernails makes marks on the lacquer finish of the wooden shelves.

"A lady doesn't tell," Yvonne sing-songs, coy. People around the table lean towards her, practically at the edge of their damn seats waiting for her to spill some details--and that, that ain't on.

"Stop that shit." Before he can stop himself, Eggsy steps out from his hiding place.

They all turn to look at him. Yvonne raises an eyebrow, assessing.

"Stop what?"

Eggsy keeps his head held high, holding on to indignant anger or else he'll fall on embarrassment instead and-- _no_.

"Mr. Hart's a professional," He says, matter-of-fact. "Don't ruin his reputation with that shit."

Something passes through Yvonne's expression but it's too quick, and Eggsy remembers too late that he's literally witnessed Yvonne with her legs spread wide open and Harry Hart inbetween them. Fuck.

He does his best to relax his fists.

"Mmm," She considers, eyes a bit narrowed. Yvonne smiles sharp and turns back to the table, "Should I invite Mr. Hart to prom? What do you think?"

"You slag," George exclaims in a hushed whisper. "Do it."

"Shit, girl, yeah," The rest of them murmur around her.

The rush of blood to Eggsy's head makes him careless. Makes him argue some more. "Just because you invite him--it don't mean he'll come."

"Oh," She mock-shivers, putting on a show, "Trust me, he'll _come,_ alright."

It earns a few titters and Eggsy abruptly lets out a short harsh laugh--a necessary release of pent up energy or else he'll do something he'll regret. Pushing another student through the glass window from the third floor wouldn't look good on anyone's record.

He breathes out slow, hopefully subtle among the chatter, and he smiles at her just as sharp. "Well, good luck with that."

Eggsy turns away, making his way back to his quiet corner and hoisting his rucksack up to leave. Honestly, who the bloody hell does she think she is? Harry's a busy man. He ain't got no time for some prom.

For fuck's sake.

He tries not to let the idea bother him, because it's ridiculous. Harry wouldn't even consider it. Right? He's like forty or something and she's like barely sixteen and---the image of Yvonne spread out on Harry's desk strikes him again and _fuck_. That didn't mean anything, Harry was just trying to get information and she was taking advantage of him that's all. And it was a botched seduction anyway. So there.

Not that he cares. It's just--improper. That's all. Age difference. Shifty power dynamics. Harry wouldn't be stupid to show up for some secondary school prom just because some teenager asked him, yeah?

Eggsy goes home and throws himself into his studies or else he'll spontaneously combust from over-thinking about things he doesn't even care about.

"What are you gonna do this holiday, luv?"

Eggsy stops in his furious essay drafting. "Huh?"

His mum actually looks concerned. "This half-term? You've got a whole week off school don't you?"

"...Oh, yeah. That's next week, innit?" He cranes his head to glance at the paper stuck on the fridge. He can't really see it clearly from this distance and he has to keep on squinting. Fuck, this doesn't mean he needs glasses, does it? Two thousand and seven ain't the year for glasses.

"Eggsy," She starts, speaking slow. "It's your schedule."

"Right, yeah. Sorry. I'll definitely be starting work though, and then studying, so..." He leaves it there, going back to his work. He has to get this shit done soon and move on to studying with Roxy through the phone. While Eggsy doesn't really have a set schedule for these things, Roxy does.

"Eggsy," His mum tries to get his attention and he tries not to be aggravated with her. The look on her face is serious, and so he puts his pen down, waiting. "Eggsy, you've been through a lot."

Groaning, he gives in and puts his head on his hands. "That was like, a week ago."

"Yes! A _week_ ago, Eggsy. You make it sound like it ain't a big deal."

"’Cos it ain't," He insists.

She huffs, and there's that sad look on her face and god, he hates that shit. "On your holiday next week, I want you to take it easy."

"'Easy'?" He slowly repeats, trying to understand.

"It's a holiday, Eggsy. Enjoy yourself, please," She implores. "Not _too_ much, of course, but you know what I mean. And trust me, yeah? When you get older, you'll be beggin' for a holiday, mark my words. You'll be rememberin' this conversation, and you'll be like, 'damn, shoulda listened to me mum all those years ago'."

He lets himself just smile like he's giving in. It'll look like she's won this conversation. "I'll try, yeah?"

The thing is, he can't _afford_ to enjoy himself. But he doesn't tell her that, and gives her a kiss on the cheek instead as she leaves for work.

Eggsy also decides that he'll have to get in touch with Anna. Because the bookshop is one thing, yeah? But learning a specific skill like massage and getting _professionally_ trained in it, that's something else entirely. That'll pay real well if he decides to pursue it on the side in the near future. He needs all the options and advantages he can get. He'd be stupid to pass it by.

Half an hour later, Roxy picks up the phone, and Eggsy really tries to ignore how out of breath she is but, "Oi, did I call at a bad time or somethin'? It's seventeen-thirty, innit?"

" _Huh? No. I mean yes, seventeen-thirty. But not a bad time. Exactly as scheduled._ "

He squints at his tattered second-hand workbook in suspicion. "...Are ya sure I didn't interrupt a snoggin' session?"

" _Oi!_ "

Eggsy can't help but smile. She’s caught the habit of saying that from him, he's sure of it. And if she was physically here, he's also pretty sure that would have been accompanied by a punch on the shoulder.

"Come on, tell big brother Eggsy about it," He teases, hamming it up a bit.

" _Gross, you're just one year older-_ -" She hisses. "- _-and I was doing push-ups, Unwin._ "

He gasps, "Last name usage, I'm hurt."

" _Paul, a rich businessman with international connections, has been charged with a serious fraud offence,_ " She rattles on, straight to business. " _His solicitor says in court that Paul is a family man of good character who has lived in the UK for over 20 years. Likely bail condition?_ "

He stops himself from going through his workbook and rattles through his brain instead. "...Surrender of passport. Alternative bail condition?"

" _Daily reporting to the police or a bail surety._ "

"Nice," He tells her, approving. "Though I think Paul's arse should be booted straight to hell for being that greedy. Like, the wanker's already rich to begin with for fuck's sake."

She chortles at that. " _This is the basics, though._ " Now, she sounds a bit unsure. " _You're taking the Law AS this year, aren't you?_ "

"Don't remind me of my regrettable life choices, Rox."

" _You got a B for the GCSE though, that's not bad. We've been going over the basics so far, we can go higher. I can keep up. That's going to help with your AS-level."_

"The basics are helping me right now, I ain't gonna lie. I've been a bit distracted this year. I mean--busy, really. Family stuff and tryin' to get a proper job and the like. Peasant problems. You know how it is," He rushes through with an awkward laugh near the end. "Let's just continue from where we stopped last time, yeah? It'll help you too."

In complete honesty, he also doesn't have the study-guide book for that particular level. He uses the ones in the library and writes on a separate sheet of paper for notes and answers. The books aren't terribly expensive, but he tries to only buy them second-hand.

Roxy, no doubt, has a full set for each subject she's studying for, ones she doesn't even need to read for like two years.

" _Alright, then Geography next,_ " She proposes.

"Ah, shit, right," He tries not to whine. "What else are you taking this year again?"

" _Just Law, Geography, and German._ "

"Damn. You know normal people take their GCSEs in Year 11, yeah?"

" _Says the guy who took the same number of GCSEs in his Year 10. Sod off._ "

"As I said, regrettable life choices. Plus, Quinlan hounded my arse."

" _Don't even get me started on him,_ " She mutters darkly. " _Triple A stars for A-Levels. I'll get those too, watch me._ "

Eggsy bites his lip, trying not to laugh. She's so brutally competitive and she still manages to be somewhat really adorable about it. "I don't doubt it, Rox. Honest."

Also, he doesn't remind her that Quinlan actually had quadruple A stars. She needs less stress in her life.

They go on, slaving over information until the evening, but they finally take a break for dinner when Eggsy's excruciatingly detailed descriptions of all the food he wants to eat gets too annoying for her. Roxy calls him back after ten minutes.

"Christ, miss me already?"

" _Shut up. What are you having?_ "

"I'm still in the kitchen trying to make my damn sandwich," He informs her.

" _You don't even like sandwiches._ "

"No, but beggars can't be choosers. Peasant life, Rox. Hardcore. And you? They servin' caviar and all that shit in your posh school?"

" _I'm home for the weekend. Maybe the whole week. No school for--_ " She abruptly cuts herself off and starts again, " _Do you ever have those moments where you just stare at the fridge and there's all these kinds of food but you can't pick?_ "

"Yeah, except my food options are probably less than yours--And shit, bruv, you have the whole week off too? I know not all schools have the same term and holiday dates, so this has got to be a sign," He rattles off excitedly.

" _I'd love to hangout, but that all depends if my parents get the leave they asked for at work or not._ "

"Oh. Well, that's cool." He cringes. Christ, he should have paid more attention to drama class.

" _Eggsy-_ "

He tries to be more genuine. "You've been off to school for a long time and you rarely go home. So shoo, off you go, Morton. Spend time with your fam."

Just because Jamal and Ryan ain't an option right now doesn't mean Eggsy can be selfish.

" _I really doubt it. They have a demanding job. But I'll update you, yeah?_ "

"Yeah--"

There's a knock on the door. Eggsy's heart thuds and he hates how one of his first reactions is to glance at the knife block.

" _Eggsy?_ "

"Yeah," He breathes. "There's--" He clears his throat and chuckles. "There's someone at the door, tha's all."

His mum's at work by now and if she forgot anything, she'd just call him.

Dean may be gone but his goons ain't.

Fuck. How could he be so stupid to even begin letting his guard down these past few days?

" _Is it the pizza guy?_ "

"No, Rox. I didn't order any." He takes the largest knife and slowly walks over to the door.

" _Well, check and look through the peephole._ "

"I'm putting the phone down--"

" _No! Why?_ " She protests, incredulous. " _Just check._ "

He stops himself from snapping at her excited insistence. She might get offended and drop the call and---at that moment he realises that he'd like to keep hearing her voice to keep him steady.

It also occurs to him then that it could just be Harry.

 _Please. Please, be Harry,_ The thought comes without any warning.

And imagine that, him begging for Harry fucking Hart.

Eggsy peeks through the peephole. He sees a red Pizza Hut cap. A part of him relaxes but he forces himself to go tense again and keep his body beside the door so he's not facing it.

Clutching his knife, he keeps his tone casual but loud enough to be heard through the door. "I didn't order any pizza."

"Uhh, are you sure?" An awkward adolescent voice replies, "Light cheese, sausage and extra pineapples on top for Gary Unwin?"

Eggsy squints suspiciously at the space of his living room. Roxy chortles.

" _Pineapples on pizza is ghastly, but you like it, so--See how much I love you, Unwin?_ "

It takes a moment for it to sink in.

"Fuck," He sighs, finally letting himself relax. "The hell, Rox?"

He sets the knife down on the nearby shelf just in case and opens the door. "How much, bruv?"

"It's already payed for. Paid extra and everything for fast delivery," He whistles appreciatively before handing the box over and leaving. Eggsy goes back to the kitchen and tries not to devour the whole bloody thing in one go.

" _Honestly, Eggsy. You'd think I'd get you something and leave you to pay for it?_ "

"It ain't Christmas you know, charity for the poor ain't exactly all year round no matter what they tell ya," He mumbles through his second slice, slightly bitter. "Did I mention I hate pity from people I actually care about?"

" _Oh please, don't be ridiculous. I just want to give something back for studying with me and putting up with my bizarre schedules._ "

"You don't have to do shit like that, and just 'cos I describe to you my fantasy pizza in detail, it don't mean I was hinting anything. I put up with you 'cos I want to, Rox."

There's a brief period of silence and Eggsy is satisfied to just continue on eating.

" _...Fine, if you're going to be like that--Fine. Let's talk about feelings, might as well, this will never happen again--You caught me. I got you pizza because I wanted to. And maybe I knew you were going to ask to hangout if I mentioned the holiday and maybe I knew I was going to have to say no--But it's not just the bit of guilt._ " She takes a large breath and rushes on, " _Let me tell you that I absolutely would if I could, because you're my best friend and even Quinlan worries about you even though he doesn't say it, and I want you to know that even though we might not get to meet often and spend time together--"_

"Rox--" Eggsy huffs an awkward laugh, trying to get her to stop.

 _"No, this is important, Eggsy. You have to know that you are loved._ "

Eggsy almost chokes on his pizza and hurriedly tries to find water to help with the onslaught of coughing. "Well, shit--"

" _It doesn't matter to me that you're 'poor'. Nor does it matter to Quinlan. You know it doesn't. So stop pretending to be beneath me--even as a joke--just because you're not as well off as my family. Rise above, Eggsy Unwin._ "

His eyes are watering, but that's probably from the near death experience. Probably.

"Damn. It's like you knew I was havin' a shitty week or something," He mumbles. "You always know what to say, Rox."

" _Well, that's what best friends are for, isn't it?_ "

 

\--»

 

"Agent Galahad, do come in," Arthur greets.

"Here is my mission report. I gathered you wanted it straight from me." Harry hands it over, but Arthur only flicks through it before putting it aside.

"Proceed," He grants, waiting. It's not odd for Arthur to want a verbal account, but his demeanour puts Harry internally off-kilter. He also hasn't been asked to sit, so naturally he continues to stand in front of Arthur as he speaks.

"Alexei Spiros is indeed in the country, as confirmed by his lower level connections. Locally, he has a small time operation here based in Croydon, but I've managed to pinpoint his physical location somewhere in Leeds."

Arthur hums. "And what is your next step?"

Harry gives nothing away. "Confirming his presence within the country and gathering intel on his current operations was my only objective, as stated in my proposal. I have done my job. What you further decide to do with that intel is rightly your decision."

From the pleased look on Arthur's face, he's passed some kind of test. The fact that Harry's still being subjected to such a thing at his age and at this point of his career makes him briefly entertain the idea of mutiny.

"That's not all you came here to discuss, Galahad. You're not one to schedule a private meeting just for a debrief."

"No," He admits, unabashed. "I'm simply tired of being hounded by Mycroft Holmes."

"Mycroft has Kingsman's best interest at heart."

"With all due respect, sometimes I'm not quite certain whether he works for us or MI6."

"He works for both, Harry."

Despite the use of his first name, he manages not to show any outward irritation. "Interesting. I came to the conclusion that he works for neither."

"Is that so?"

"I've always been under the impression that Kingsman is entirely independent. That we don't answer to any government--because we aren't _paid_ by any government."

"No, but the influx of funds does help. Surely, you can't be that naive."

Harry can't stop the pursing of his own lips. He's always suspected, however--

"With all due respect, what has made Kingsman special is that we were separate from the rest, _unknown_ and _undetected_. What is the point of us, when we have given other agencies the ability to inevitably give us up?" Harry challenges.

Arthur huffs, unconcerned, tone slightly patronising. "Galahad, is this what you were worried about all along?"

"You _allowed_ him to assign me to work alongside MI6 and MI5." He tries not to sound accusing.

"And yet there's only nineteen people within those organisations combined who knows about Kingsman," Arthur retorts, smug arrogance exuding from his very presence.

"Nineteen?" Harry repeats. _There shouldn't even be one._

"The majority of the people you've worked with the past two years never questioned your origin. Most of MI6 was under the impression that you were MI5 and vice versa. It was agreed upon by those I have put in place within both Section 5 and 6 that they would take responsibility should anyone start asking questions. M herself is, of course, quite bitter about Kingsman, but we have an agreement and she knows better than to renege on it."

Harry is hyper-aware of the curious scrutiny directed at him. "But... _nineteen_?"

"I try not to go past twenty," He replies magnanimously, as if that's something to be praised. "Is that all, Agent Galahad?" Arthur asks, tone laced with amusement.

 _No. That is_ not _all._

He knows there is more far beneath the surface of what is being said. And he has the terrible urge to push and push until the whole thing breaks--

But.

He thinks of Roxanne Morton.

"Yes and no," Harry answers. "I'm also here about Lancelot and Percival."

 

\--»

 

Eggsy's employment permit comes in and he's set to work starting Sunday. He also has a few sessions set up with Anna this week so he can get started on the basics of massage. He's a bit apprehensive, but all in all, it seems like it's gonna be a productive week.

He recognises a difference in the way he walks. His injuries still ache a bit, yeah, but he notices his posture is a bit straighter, his gait more confident and it's not actually a put-on show. Making his way out of the tube station to head straight for his job, he feels himself smiling and he shakes his head. The power of Roxy Morton, man. Unbelievable.

He honestly hopes that she'll have a great time with her family.

Eggsy stops at the front of the store. And he tries, he swears that he tries not to but-- he walks past it just to take a peek at the small street that has Harry's house at the end of it. He's probably not even home, back at his normal job. Whatever that is.

It's just a quick peek anyway, so he takes a few steps back to go into the bookshop, still three minutes early.

He gets welcomed by the owner herself, and gets shown the ropes by a bloke named Max from the previous shift and it all ain't so bad. Most of the books are already sorted and in order for now. New boxes of shipments are bound to come in a few weeks and they'll teach him how to deal with that too. It's a really tiny store with a basement filled with even more books and a sofa in the middle if anyone wanted to read.

His two-hour shift goes by real quick but maybe that's just because he had to do a lot of things. Once he gets settled in, he bets it'll feel like forever just sitting at the desk until someone comes in or approaches him if there aren't any books to sort. They also go over on the procedures on how to close shop considering most of Eggsy's scheduled shifts are at the end of the day. But of course he won't be alone, he's still technically underage after all. They can't just give him that responsibility from the get-go. That's absolutely fine by him.

By the time they're finished and gathered at the front of the store, Eggsy genuinely smiles at them as he waves goodbye, walking backwards. Max does a double-take and frowns. "The tube's this way, Gary."

"Huh?" He stops in his walk, realising. "Oh, yeah. Of course, I just--" He points over his own shoulder, and the embarrassment starts to flood him. What the fuck was he doing anyway?

_You know what you were doing. You know where you were gonna go._

Max huffs, shaking his head and grinning. "Come on, you," He beckons him, and Eggsy goes along with Max towards the tube station, making small talk.

It's all about self control, Eggsy decides.

 

»

 

The next day, after having spent the last two hours reliving basic anatomy lessons for his massage training, he arrives by the bookshop not three minutes early like the day previous, but three _hours_ early. And it's raining like hell, so of course, what else is there to do but break into Harry's house?

Well, he doesn't mean to, he _does_ knock first. It's only polite.

Even as he enters the house, he takes it slow and cautious. His heart is thudding and and his blood is simmering right under the surface. The excitement is _unparalleled_. He bites his lip, trying not to grin as he calls out, "Harry?--Mr. Hart, you home?"

There's nothing for a few minutes, and he stands there, thinking of his options. The possibilities are endless.

 

\--»»

 

Harry barely gets home on Thursday at zero three-hundred before he has to leave and head straight back to HQ. He's quite certain that these deluge of arbitrary missions are Arthur's punishment for taking Lancelot and Percival's place. But then again, he had a sense that this would be the case if he took this on. Therefore, he has no regrets.

It has been a source of Merlin's frustration over the years that once Harry has decided to do something, he'll go through it with all his power, no hesitation, no looking back. Still, most of his missions have been successful and he still hasn't been fired.

Therefore, Harry takes Arthur's tantrum in stride.

He'll do his absolute best to keep his head up, to appear calm and collected as he always has--as if he hasn't been sent all over the British Isles in a wild goose-chase, running low on fuel and sleep.

Thus, it should be forgiven that in the very few minutes he gets to spend in his own house, he doesn't notice the slight changes in it.

Until, of course, he opens the fridge.

He blinks at its contents, opens his mouth only to snap it shut. Cautiously closing his fridge, he is then faced with his shopping list, now slightly crumpled with some of the items written on it crossed out.

Pursing his lips, he turns around and regards everything in his house with a clearer mind.

Unfortunately, he has to head back to HQ for what is no doubt a debrief and a new assignment, so he has to forget what he just saw for at the very least the next twenty-four hours.

 

\--»

 

It's Friday and Eggsy's has lost all the confidence he's gained the past few days. He's figured something out and he doesn't think he can ever look his mum in the eyes again. He doesn't think he'll ever want to.

The previous night, she had let him know that she had another job interview in the morning. Out of curiosity, he had asked her about it. More or less, she'll be taking the same route through the tube, same lines, same direction.

This morning, she's left her mobile in the loo. And Eggsy figures this out five minutes after she's closed the front door. So, of course, he changes quick and goes after her, running through the rain.

She's at a bus stop. Waiting.

To anyone else, this shouldn't be odd. But that's the opposite of what she'd said she'd do. Hidden a few paces away, Eggsy makes his decision. He gets on the same crowded bus she does after a few safe seconds.

And yeah, he shouldn't have done it. But he has a gut feeling. A really bad gut feeling.

And he's right. Because her journey leads up to a hospital.

When he sees his mum interacting with a nurse at the front desk in a way that's almost familiar, that's when it dawns on Eggsy:

She's been _visiting_ him.

She's been visiting _Dean_.

And it makes him fucking _sick_.

Eggsy's hyperventilating as he makes his way home as fast as he can, barely holding it together. He packs his shit, briefly gives in to the mad whim of shaving before he loiters at the bookshop, begging to help in any way that he can even though it ain't his shift for another few hours.

 

\--

 

From two floors up, Harry falls onto a large closed rubbish-bin in a narrow street and immediately rolls over to the ground, avoiding gunshots. He swiftly moves on to run for his life, slightly favouring his left side. It's only mid-day for fuck's sake. These people have no class.

Heading straight for the crowded streets, he blends in, changing his outward demeanour and the way he walks.

His mobile vibrates within his pocket and Harry inconspicuously takes his glasses off as he wanders around the park.

Lestrade's voice barely hides his vexation with one muttered word. " _Hart._ "

"Yes?"  

" _Your boy just called me, very. fucking. upset,_ " He enunciates.

Harry falters in his steps. For some reason, he knows who Lestrade is referring to. He keeps his tone measured.

"Is he hurt?"

" _Not physically, no. But he's just found out that his mother's been at the hospital visiting her ex-boyfriend who's been abusing him, so in other ways, yes, he's fucking hurt._ "

He discreetly snaps a tiny branch off a tree. "And he called you?"

" _I don't think he had anyone else to turn to._ "

Biting his tongue, Harry stops himself from telling him otherwise.

"And you're telling me this because..."

" _Because this is your fucking fault. The hospital wouldn't have called her to begin with if you hadn't come in the middle of the night, injected him with god knows what, and had your jolly fun time in_ interrogating _him with the added bonus of shoving a pillowcase down his throat._ "

"Why, I didn't know you had quite the imagination, Inspector."

" _Fuck off. They found him on a slab in the morgue, barely breathing. The man was already in a coma for fuck's sake. What you did--you're fucking mental. Christ, my team thought it was the work of a_ serial killer _. And I_ know _it was you. Don't even try to deny it._ "

Harry gives in and sits on a bench before finally speaking, "...Well, last time I checked, he's still in a coma. Therefore, I have no idea what you're talking about."

There's a frustrated groan followed by hysterical laughter. " _Ah, yes! Because if you have the capability of bringing a man out of a coma, you absolutely_ lack _the ability to induce one._ "

There is hope for Scotland Yard after all.

"You knew they notified her?"

" _Hospital procedure. It was out of my hands. I didn't know she visited, much less kept at it,_ " Lestrade huffs, resigned.

There's only silence for a few seconds.

"...Again, you're calling me, why?"

It seems to be the last straw. Lestrade bursts out yelling in frustrated fury, " _Because your boy is fucking upset and I don't have the fucking time nor the patience to deal with it. All the shit he's gotten mixed up in already--I don't even want to know what kind of trouble he gets up to when he's_ actually _upset. He's_ your _fucking boy._ "

The call drops.

Harry stays where he is, longer than necessary. He appears to have lost his pursuers, but he can't rest easy. That's the type of carelessness that gets people killed in his line of work and so he continues on in aimlessly zigzagging through the city. In a charity shop, he buys a coat and a hat for a shift in appearance and tells them to keep the change. He's barely out the door when something catches his attention.

 

\--»

 

Harry still ain't home. Not that he's worried or anything.

Like, maybe he was here this morning and maybe he'll get home really late tonight. Their schedules just don't match, that's all.

His old Nokia vibrates from his pocket and he answers, mouth still full of crisps. "'ello? Quin?"

The reply comes, brisk. " _Don't talk with your mouth full. You've left a message. Why?_ "

"You sound put-upon but I know you love me, bruv. Truly," He purposely sounds upbeat and annoying. "Did you remember to eat today? It's Friday innit? You out with your other friends? Having fun?"

Quinlan sighs. " _You're mother-henning me, I take it it's not important then._ "

See, he'd totally tell Quinlan. That was the plan when he left him the message in the first place. But now--he decides not to. Because then he'd have to fucking think about it, and breaking down in someone else's house that he's just broken into really ain't an idea that sounds appealing right now.

"Well," He stalls, hand going up to his cheek, feeling the area. He realises too late that his hands are still greasy from the crisps. Ah, shit. "Tsk. Remember when I told you I shaved, like, a few weeks ago?"

" _Mhm. And what, it's only grown back now? Sounds like a medical issue,_ " He drawls.

"Sod off. It's just--so yeah it grows a bit slow, but there's more of them now...but it's still soft? Wispy? Like, I thought once you shave it the first time, it'll be all thick and...you know, real?"

" _Did you try shaving a second time?_ " Quinlan cracks.

"Well, yeah, just before I went to work today actually, but...that's the problem. I kinda--well. I dunno, really. It kinda hurts?"

Quinlan stops whatever he's doing in the background. " _What did you do?_ "

"Err, nothing, I just shaved and it's--tender, I guess? My skin, I mean. I think some parts are still red." He frowns. "It wasn't this bad the first time?"

Quinlan mutters something about the second time being worse than the first, but Eggsy doesn't think he's talking about shaving.

" _Maybe you simply have sensitive skin. Which--_ " Quinlan bursts out laughing. " _\--Figures._ "

"Oi. I'm not the one who still gets carded at a pub. And _I'm_ the one who's underage."

Quinlan mock-hisses, " _It's called the fountain of youth, Unwin. It's a burden I have to bear. Give it ten years and you'll be wishing you had it._ "

Eggsy scoffs, trying not to laugh back at him. "You know, I don't know even know why I'm askin' you about this, you ain't probably even shaved at all have you? What with that fountain of youth curse and all."

" _Shut it. What aftershave are you using?_ "

"...aftershave?"

There's a beat. " _...Buggering hell. You've no idea what that is, do you?_ "

"No! Of course I do, it's--a thing you use. After you...shave," Eggsy vehemently explains.

There's another moment of silence. " _...Eggsy--no. I---no._ " Quinlan just sounds done.

"Oi! I don't exactly have anyone to ask. _So_ sorry that me Da's kinda six feet under," He retorts, eyes rolling.

" _Gary fucking Unwin--You. You know what, no. Ask your other daddy. Posh gentleman wanker that he is, probably has all kinds of tips for you._ "

Eggsy's jaw drops.

"What fuckin' ' _daddy'_ are you on about--" Eggsy guffaws, sitting up in his place on the sofa. He genuinely has no idea what Quinlan means but he's turning red anyway. The words 'posh', 'gentleman', and 'wanker' probably gave his brain a head start.

" _Oh no, are we playing this again? I'm so busy I just have no time for denial, sorry."_ The keyboard clacking begins again.

"But-but--' _daddy_ '?" Eggsy sputters, all but shrieking into the phone. He stops himself from going any further and looks around in caution. "The fuck?" He whispers as he stands from the sofa and makes his way to the loo.

" _Let's face it, Unwin. Let's be real about this._ "

Before opening the door, Eggsy knocks twice as a habit, as it is with the dreaded knowledge of having Mr. Pickle on the other side. "Real about what?"

" _Oh no,_ " Quinlan says with something like agony. " _Are you going to do that sexuality crisis thing? What a bore--_ "

"What 'sexuality crisis'?" He demands, turning on the faucet and putting his mobile on loudspeaker before placing it on a shelf. "I'm straight. I like them birds and I like them tits." He starts scrubbing the grease off his hand a bit too vigorously. "What the bloody hell are you even on about--"

" _\--Bye_."

The line cuts off.

Eggsy's left to stare at his mobile in astonishment. He groans in raging affront and moves on to wash his face. When he resurfaces, he catches sight of Mr. Pickle's beady eyes boring in to his.

Eggsy glares, flicking his hands to get rid of the water. "The fuck is your daddy at anyway, why ain't he home yet?"

He roughly handles the towel and presses his face into it. Fuck. It smells nice too. Shit.

He groans again, taking the towel away. "And you know what?" He turns back to Mr. Pickle, raising a finger, "Just 'cos I have... _dreams_ don't mean that I--that I have a _thing_. Well, it's obviously a thing but, it ain't like I can help it, yeah? I got no control over that shit. It's a dream. So..." He loses his steam and he's unable to keep on facing the dead stuffed dog that he was just having a bloody conversation with. In the loo of the house that he just broke into. Hours ago.

Fuck.

He awkwardly turns his back to deal with the still running water of the sink, feeling a bit guilty at having wasted it.

In the living room, he starts cleaning up, picking up the crumbs, wiping the surfaces and putting the rubbish in a plastic bag. He piles his journal, workbooks and school supplies together, ready to be put in his rucksack. But then he remembers having opened the door to the loo with a greasy hand so he goes to make sure that's clean too. By the time he finishes, the fact that he made a mess in the room itself catches up with him and he just can't leave it alone. Fuck.

He wipes the sink, gets rid of the splash stains on the mirror and the floor. Eggsy does it with the mindset that he'll obliterate any trace that he was ever here, that Harry will never know. It's totally a plausible outcome. Maybe Harry never got home the whole week at all and he didn't have to notice anything, because Eggsy's pretty sure he's been careful too. He's tried to keep everything in place, he's always taken all the rubbish he has with him and he's always locked the door when he went on home. Yeah, he hopes Harry won't notice.

Because when Eggsy leaves tonight, he won't be coming back.

 

\--»

 

The clouds do not block the full-moon when Harry gets home at half past one in the morning, definitely bruised and absolutely weary.

He doesn't even bother to turn on the light, merely goes up the stairs and heads straight for his bedroom. Leaving his sub-par folded clothes and the newspaper-wrapped item near the sink, he stands under the shower for what feels like a significant amount of time, mesmerised by the dirt and blood that swirls down the drain.  

 _I love my job_ , he thinks. _I love my job._

Even his drying routine doesn't match up to his fatigued state. He runs a hand through his still damp hair, too ridiculously tired to comb it properly.

After putting on his pyjama bottoms, he reaches for an old, thinly-worn army shirt instead of having to deal the prospect of having to button seven buttons at the very least. He absently pulls a cardigan over his shirt, barely buttoning twice before giving up. Summer nights in London never fail to be cold. Putting his red robe on, he decides to curb his urge to get a hard drink by compromising with a glass of milk instead. He thinks he saw some the last time he opened the fridge, which--

 _Ah_. He pauses at his walk down the stairs. _Milk I never bought_.

There is also that issue to take care of.

He continues his journey in the darkness, eyes constantly adjusting. At that moment he belatedly remembers his half-witted antique clock. It's most definitely off by at least half an hour forward considering he's been gone for a week and he hasn't even had the time to adjust it at all before that.

At this rate, he might just donate it to a charity shop.

Harry is in such deep thought and exhaustion as he makes his way to the kitchen that it takes him a while to realise that the noise he's been hearing isn't the light rain outside, or the hum of the fridge nearby, or any electrical appliance. It's actually coming from the figure on the sofa.

His eyes truly focus then.

The unyielding moonlight permeating through the curtains paints the room a slight blueish hue. And the boy's quiet breaths seem to be growing louder and clearer, filling the space to the point where Harry thinks he can feel the vibrations of sound itself pass through him.

But maybe that's simply because, in a daze, he's made his way closer.

Mouth slightly agape, Harry stares at the slumbering form who has an arm thrown over their head, covering it almost in defence. The boy is also protectively clutching a type of leather-bound book with the other hand.

Harry tries to speak but he can't. For a few moments, there is nothing.

Only them.

Blinking, Harry shakes his head. He wets his lips and swallows, getting ready to speak.

But again. Nothing.

He huffs, slightly aggravated at himself. Frowning, he bends over to lightly touch the boy's shoulder.

In reaction, he only gets a snuffle.

Harry tries again, prodding a few fingers this time around.

He gets a whining groan as the boy shifts on the sofa. "Mmm, five minutes."

Harry closes his mouth and starts again, touch more firm, hand spread wide over the boy's shoulder as he crouches in front of him, intending to be closer to eye level for when he finally wakes up, lest he scare him as a looming figure in the darkness.

"Eggsy," He says, his voice a gentle intrusion in the silence.

"Mmm."

"...Eggsy." His hold on him tightens a fraction.

"Mmm." The boy burrows his head deeper into the safety of his own arms.

There's a type of disassociation, an anomaly of self-awareness, consisting of a strange reality wherein one is detached from their own self. It's an experience that Harry is currently having. He's not in control, and he doesn't feel real.

It's the only explanation, as to why in a stupor of exhausted _desperation_ , it leaves his mouth, hoarse and pleading:

"...Darling, please."

It's almost as if he can see himself say it, see the masked horror on his own face as he watches Eggsy's body shift, stretching lightly as he exhales, gentle and drawn out.

His eyes blink open, bleary.

Harry can see the moment when his eyes adjust to the darkness, because it finds his own immediately.  

"Huh," huffs the boy, soft.

Eggsy keeps on staring, blinking, and a few seconds pass until his hand reaches for him. Harry can't move, body gone still.

The hand reaches the side of his face, warm, and he tries not to breathe.

"Huh," The boy repeats in an exhale, hand leisurely moving up and further back, fingers splayed wide as they ever so slowly run through Harry's hair, fingers grazing the scalp.

Harry keeps his mouth shut.

"Shit," Eggsy breathes, eyes becoming more dazed as he blinks. " _Shit._ "

The hold on his hair tightens and Harry is a casualty to the slight pull, going on his knees.

The boy looks up at him with wonder, sighing, " _Fuck._ "

Harry only catches his hand as the grip loosens and he falls back to sleep.

 

 


	16. 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The morning after. Rules and...Negotiations?

 

When Eggsy starts waking up, he's too comfortable to really notice that anything's off. It's only when he keeps on stretching and rolling around the sheets that it hits him: His bed ain't this big. And it definitely ain't this comfortable.

His eyes snap open.

The first thing he sees in the muted daylight is a snow-globe placed on the nightstand. The longer he stares at it, the more the maddening thud of his heart diminishes. Time seemingly slows down, and he gets to the point of distracted relaxation that he starts to focus on the slight particles of dust wafting about the air.

Eggsy could probably do this all day.

He huffs and turns to push his face against the pillow to breathe in deep and think; Where is he right now and why does he feel safe? Eggsy tries to remember, but what comes up are only vague flashes of a dream involving comfortable darkness and a familiar silhouette, which--is hardly anything new, to be honest.

Trying to desperately remember a dream is a situation he's been in before, so he knows that half the time, that shit don't work. He also knows that if he keeps at it, he'll just ruin the good mood he has going on.

He glances at the snow-globe again, squinting in confusion. It's then he realises that it's settled on his journal.

 _Fuck_.

Shooting up from the bed, he catches sight of the rest of his stuff on the floor against the opposite wall. He grabs everything in a hurry and makes his way out the door and down the stairs. It occurs to him halfway that he shouldn't be making so much noise but when he actually makes the attempt, that's when he notices the sounds and the _smell_ that can only be coming from the kitchen.

Ah. Shit.

Might as well get this over with.

Eggsy cautiously makes his way towards the kitchen entrance with the feeling of impending doom.

Don't ask him how, but he _knows_ Harry knows--except the man just keeps his back turned, focused on his cooking.

"Please sit down," the request comes.

Eggsy has the right mind to fucking leave in absolute shame, but he just sets his bag down against the wall just in case he needs to make a quick exit and places the journal on the table. As he sits, he takes a moment to bask at the fact that this is practically the first time he's seeing Harry fully out of a suit. He's wearing pyjama bottoms like some real people actually do and what is that? A wooly cardigan? That's so cheesy. Christ, is this really the same person who effortlessly took down a whole group of low-level criminals?

"If I may interrupt your dramatic inner monologue, would you prefer milk or orange juice?"

"Err," Eggsy starts. Harry's already at the fridge and Eggsy can't help but stare at the back of his head. It's not that it's messy or anything, but it's not exactly slicked and styled either. There's _something_ about it--

"Or water, perhaps?"

"--Orange juice is fine."

"With the bits or without?"

"With."

Harry turns around and--

It's lucky that Eggsy's sitting down at this very moment because he's pretty sure he'd have injured himself at some point. His mind is at the blue fucking screen of death and there's nothing but the repeat internal screaming of 'His hair. His _hair_. His _fucking_ hair.'

"Now that makes me wonder," Harry goes on, oblivious.

Eggsy swallows. "Wonder what?"

"...Why you bought two in the first place."

Under the table, Eggsy's fingernails dig in through the cloth of his track-pants when Harry goes to the table to pour him a glass of orange juice, closing the distance between them. Despite the heat of his presence beside him, Eggsy keeps his eyes front and doesn't look at him whatsoever. Harry's hair isn't exactly full-on disheveled, no, but it's...a bit _fluffy_. It has a bit of a wavy thing going on and--

"Well, 'cos it's not like I know what kind you like, do I?" He blurts in defence, a bit more heated than necessary.

Ah, fuck.

Covering for his nerves, he makes to reach for the juice but Harry takes the glass and places it far out of his reach.

"Wot--?"

"Not yet. You haven't eaten anything." He goes to pour him a glass of water and sets it near Eggsy, "Breakfast should be done any second."

Eggsy gulps the water down in sections while Harry focuses on cooking. His hair. Shit. He's seen it that way before. He thinks he remembers now. Running his fingers through the slight curls of it---But that was a dream though, wasn't it?

His hand clenches into a fist against his thigh. He remembers the _feel_ of it. It was so vivid. And Harry was looking down at him like--Fuck. No, it can't be real. Harry wouldn't have let it happen. But Eggsy was on the sofa when fell asleep and he woke up in a separate place all together, so--

"You'll have to forgive the cuisine choices, I'm afraid. Omelette, toast, and a bit of gammon steak--"

"How did I get all the way up in the room?" Eggsy blurts.

There's a momentary pause as Harry brings the food over. "Let's eat first, shall we?" He suggests, taking a seat at the head the table.

To be fair, the food looks and _smells_ so fucking good that it actually reminds him how hungry he really is, but still--he doesn't touch anything.

Harry huffs and reaches over to put food on Eggsy's plate. "Honestly, what do you think, Eggsy? I hardly possess supernatural powers of teleportation. How else could I have moved you to the guest room but carry you up there?"

Eggsy rolls his eyes. "Well, obviously but--" _How_ , he wants to ask. A fireman carry? An arm over the shoulder? Or-- "Nevermind." He shoves some food in his mouth and can't help but moan in appreciation and surprise. "Mmm, guv--"

He looks up to find Harry staring at him weird, eyes slightly wide and brows furrowed--Appalled, maybe, at his table manners. Eggsy shouldn't be embarrassed about what kind of person he is, and he usually ain't--but considering that he's kept breaking into this man's house and ended up being carried upstairs to bed and fed some quality breakfast instead of being punished for it, he can't help but try to chew and swallow down everything at a much slower pace.

"Look, I'm sorry, yeah?"

"Sorry about what?" Harry watches him, considering. Christ, is he really gonna have to spell it out for him?

"Don't be daft, Harry," Eggsy groans.

Harry only places the orange juice closer to Eggsy and waits, working on his own food, eating all prim and fancy and shit and it's starting to get on Eggsy's nerves.

"Look, I know it wasn't... _polite_ of me or anythin' to break into your place. I swear I wasn't plannin' on staying the night," He babbles on, trying to contain his shame, "It's just, I was cleanin' up after myself and it just evolved to me makin' your house spotless as I could and I was really tired after so I decided to take a quick nap and then..."

Eggsy trails off before he can say something dumb like, _and then I woke up in the middle of the night seeing you over me and so I touched your face and ran my fingers through your hair because I never seen it like that before, shit. Was that a dream or nah?_

"It's fine."

If exclamation marks and question marks had sounds, that's definitely what's going on in Eggsy's head right now.

"Wait--What do you _mean_ it's fine? I break into your house when you're not there and you say it's _fine_? What if I was gonna steal something?" He challenges.

"Lestrade called me."

Eggsy gasps, "Shit, the fuckin' bastard. He grassed me up!"

Harry quirks a sardonic eyebrow. "He's a policeman, Eggsy."

"Well, alright. So you know then?" He hedges, "About my mum and Dean? I mean it's probably part pity, 'cos apparently someone assaulted the guy while he was still in a coma, which is sick, ya know, but it's Dean. I'm honestly wonderin' why he's still alive." Eggsy scowls.

"I'm wondering myself," Harry mutters. It's probably something Eggsy wasn't meant to hear. The man's just staring down at his plate, almost in a daze. Now that Eggsy lets himself look, Harry actually seems pretty out of it, exhausted like he hasn't gotten much sleep. And if he's being honest? _Really, really soft_.

"You look like shit, Harry," He points out instead, or else he'll do something like pet his hair or something just as dumb.

"Thank you, Eggsy. Charmed, as always."

Eggsy grins, filling his plate for a second round.

Later, they end up moving to the living room for what Harry insists is a 'serious talk', and despite rolling his eyes, it suddenly strikes Eggsy that his mum doesn't know where he is. Even though he's still angry at her, he panics, rummaging through his bag for his mobile.

"Don't worry, I called her."

"What, really?" Eggsy stares.

"Yes, I called after I left you in bed."

 _Left you in bed_. Christ, the hammering of his heart is due to a different type of panic entirely. He needs to call Quinlan back real soon.

Eggsy ignores the heat flooding to his face. "And what'dya say?"

"That you were upset about something and you slept over at my place. I didn't specify what upset you, don't worry."

"And she just took it?" Eggsy questions, disbelieving.

"No, but she was simply relieved to have known where you were, safe and sound, I imagine." Harry sits on the armchair near the corner of the room by the windows. "It was half past two in the morning, Eggsy."

"Okay, alright, so..." Eggsy shrugs, calming down and losing it again, "Serious talk?"

"Breaking and entering," Harry starts. "Obviously, I can't stop you."

Eggsy barely stops himself from snorting. "You can't?"

Harry mutters, "Nothing short of taking measures causing you injuries..."

"Like what?" Eggsy scoffs, grinning, "Electric shocks?"

"Something along those lines--The point is, I can't stop you. Therefore, there must be rules in place."

Eggsy loses the grin, sitting up straighter on his place on the sofa. He's trying not to let on how breathing is a bit of a difficult task right now because--

_He's giving me permission. He's letting me stay._

"What kind of rules, Mr. Hart?"

There's an eyebrow raise at the sudden formality, but Harry only takes a slow, deep breath before glancing pointedly at the bar.

"Oh, that," Eggsy frowns, "I didn't touch it, I swear."

"I know. Imagine my surprise when I realise that a teenager's been breaking into my home but the liquor's been untouched."

Eggsy can't quite meet his eyes, because this is actually a bit embarrassing and he'd rather not tell, but Harry seems to be waiting for a response.

"Look, I don't--" He huffs, and powers through. "I try not to drink. Unless I get really careless or angry or really bored or something."

"Oh," Surprise flickers through Harry's expression. "That's...impressive."

Eggsy tries not to preen despite his shame, because what teenager doesn't like to drink, really? He always likes to pretend he's up for it, but more often than not he gets so annoying that people actually don't take him to pubs with them. It works enough for him.

"Weren't you upset enough yesterday?" Harry asks, head tilted in curiosity.

"Well, yeah, but..." _Being here took the edge off_ , he doesn't say. "Look, my drink got spiked at some party back in Year 10. I just don't."

The exhaustion on Harry's face is immediately overshadowed by the shuttered expression. "Who?"

Eggsy lets out a huff of nervous laughter. "I dunno, guv. Didn't really matter. I learned my lesson."

"What happened?"

"Nothin'. Christ. I just got a bit loose, that’s all. Talked too much. Didn't like that feeling. Especially in front of people I didn't really trust. That’s all," Eggsy reassures him.

Harry's arms start to relax on the armchair and Eggsy can practically see the exhaustion seep back in.

He makes a decision, rising from his seat. "Alright, that's it. Just leave the dishes on the sink, yeah? Go back to bed, I'll start on them."

"No, it's fine. I've got it. We still have more to cover," Harry insists.

"Haz, I swear, guv. I said you look like shit, I meant it, yeah?" He puts his hands on his hips, trying to look threatening. At he Harry's wide-eyed look though, he begrudgingly softens just a bit. "I'll be back, I swear. After work. Should be enough time for some shut-eye, then you can lecture me proper."

"...First of all, don't call me... _that_. Second," He sighs, giving up. "Alright."

Eggsy grins as he watches him stand and make his way to the stairs. Then he remembers something that wipes the grin from his face.

"Wait. What about my journal?"

Harry turns from his place on the first few steps like some damn prince. "What about it?"

Eggsy hates it when he does that blank, blinking innocent look. Christ.

He manages to take it slow. "Did you read it?"

"Eggsy, even if I was depraved enough to touch your things without permission--"

"You did touch them," He argues, pointedly looking at his bag.

"I had to move them so you'd see them the moment you wake up and not panic."

"But my journal--"

"Again, even if I had enough of a momentary lapse in character and manners to encroach on something so private of yours without permission, it's locked."

Eggsy's hand immediately flies to palm his necklace through his shirt before pulling it out. Sure enough, the key is there right behind the medal as it's supposed to be but--"Doesn't mean you couldn't have unlocked it."

There's a brief moment of silence.

"That implies I put my hand down your shirt while you were unconscious."

Fuck.

"Is that what you were trying to get across?" Harry asks, casual and polite.

Shit.

Abort, abort, abort.

"No," Eggsy tries not to stutter, "No, of course not."

He quickly heads for the kitchen.

"Eggsy--"

Eggsy can't help but turn around.

"--Why did you come here?" Going from how fast he just shut his mouth, Harry didn't mean to ask that.

"'Cos...I dunno," Eggsy shrugs, stalling, eyes on the floor. "I don't really have that much friends for a start and I still haven't figured out which lie to tell Ryan and Jamal so they're kinda mad about the whole Davy situation."

Harry nods. "I'm sorry."

It's not what Eggsy expected. He scrunches his face. "For what?"

"For having to lie to your friends. That must be difficult," Harry offers, sincere.

 _Yeah, yeah it is_ , Eggsy thinks, _but if it keeps you out of trouble..._

"Nah. Not really," Eggsy says, nodding to himself. "In fact, I think I'll call them up this weekend, explain it to them."

They just look at each other for a moment and Eggsy huffs, "Now, go on. Shoo. Off to bed, Harry."

 

»

 

Eggsy gets home to take a quick shower and change his clothes. His mum is waiting for him once he's done but he can feel the indignation rise back up when he looks at her so he ignores her until she calls out his name, baffled and offended.

He doesn't feel like dealing with this so he goes straight for it. "You don't have the right to be offended right now. 'Cos I know about you visitin' _him_ at the hospital."

She pales and she scrambles to explain but Eggsy wants none of it. "I just need some space, alright?"

He's double-checking the stuff in his bag when she asks, "Are you stayin' at his place? Again?"

Eggsy stills. "No. I'll be off at Ryan's for the day, but I'll come home to sleep. And then it'll be the same tomorrow and the day after that until I'm less and less angry and can _at least_ stand to be around you."

He doesn't look at her and resists feeling bad about his cutting remark as he makes his way for the door.

"Eggsy..." She tries.

"Don't call me unless it's an emergency."

 

»

 

His training session with Anna consists of going over anatomy again, but this time they also get started on the types of oils and fragrances and shit. It's actually pretty soothing and it takes his mind off the whole thing with his mum and Dean for a bit. Near the end though, it just gets too overwhelming, all the smell mixing together until he can't tell them apart and he really can't concentrate anymore. Thankfully, she takes pity on him and lets him go early. During the commute to work, he gets on his mobile and dials.

" _Fuck. It's barely noon._ "

"Quinlan. It's like, three in the afternoon."

" _Well, fuck--It's like, three in the afternoon._ "

"Yeah, bruv, and it's the weekend. There's so much to do than sleep in."

" _You sound chipper. Why do you sound chipper?_ "

Eggsy can practically picture him squint his eyes in suspicion.

"Okay, so say that--theoretically--I skipped the sexuality crisis part..."

" _...Holy fuck. Unwin--That was quick. I mean I know that was the point, but it's only been less than twenty-four hours since we've that conversation._ "

"Theoretically, Quin. I said, theoretically." Eggsy emphasises.

" _Oh, I see. Still living on the edge._ "

"Right, yeah. How do I begin?--Theoretically."

" _How do you begin what?_ "

"Well, you know."

" _No, Eggsy. I don't know. I'm not a mind reader despite what you and Roxy think. I'm not a woodland fey undercover in the world of mortal beings._ "

"Well, how do I...you know."

"... _Fuck's sake, go watch some gay porn or something, leave me alone._ "

"What?!" Eggsy sputters, eyes flitting about his surroundings as if anyone's actually capable of hearing the other side of the conversation. "Where would I even go to watch it? I have a Nokia from two thousand and one, Quinlan."

The call drops. Damn, Quinlan really needs to stop doing that shit.

Eggsy tries his best to hold off on going back to Harry's place. He did say 'after work', there's no need to look desperate. It's also a good opportunity to think about the state of things, really. Except he kinda holds off on that too and spends his time procrastinating by going to work early and helping Max with the new shipments of books and overcoming boredom. When he does leave work, he walks with Max to the tube station, faking at how has to go reload his Oyster card with an added whine at the long queue, telling him to go ahead. After waiting a bit to make sure he's finally gone, Eggsy goes back to Harry's.

He's been studying in the living room for who knows how long when he hears the plumbing go on from the floor above. Barely half an hour later, the footsteps come down the stairs.

It's weird, really, the disappointment that hits Eggsy when he sees Harry all prim and proper in his suit, hair all nice and styled. "The hell, guv, you goin' to work or somethin'?"

"Just a quick meeting in an hour or so. There should be enough time for our conversation." He glances at Eggsy's books spread out on the coffee table. "I take it you've been here quite a while. Why didn't you wake me?"

"If you didn't notice me coming in, that means you were _really_ knackered." Eggsy shoots him a pointed look. "And I don't know what tailors have meetings about, but going from how you've barely been home all week and you lookin' like shit, you deserve a day off."

"It's not about what I deserve, Eggsy--Would you like something to drink?"

"Nah, helped myself to water earlier."

"Good to know you're already feeling at home," Harry dryly quips, taking his place on the armchair across, waiting.

"Right. More rules." Eggsy takes a few seconds to arrange his things, an attempt to stall and settle his nerves.

"Let's start with a recap of the last week," Harry suggests, "I need you to be honest, and I need you to know that I won't be angry."

Eggsy knows that he's trying to make him feel at ease, but what the fuck, that completely has the opposite effect. He throws himself to the wind anyway, letting the adrenaline rush through. "Alright. Shoot."

Harry is completely calm as he questions, "While you were in my house, what have you done, and what rooms have you entered?"

"The loo, the kitchen..." Eggsy tries not to visibly cringe. "I snuck in your office--once. But that was just 'cos I was wonderin' if you were actually home and just fell asleep at your desk like last time or somethin'."

"And?" Harry prompts, unnaturally still. Eggsy squints at him.

"And...you rearranged everything. Not bad, I suppose, but I don't know why you would? It looked better when the desk was facing the balcony door windows, not the far wall. I mean I'm not an interior designer, so maybe it's just me, but the front-pages of _The Sun'_ s hardly any match to what the view of the balcony offers. What's up with that, by the way?"

There's a noticeable relaxation at his babble, and Harry gives a small smile. "It's a long story and I've only got an hour before I have to leave."

Eggsy doesn't pout. He purses his lips, there's a difference, okay?

Harry motions for him to continue but Eggsy just stares on, because what else could possibly he say?

"...That's it." He humours him, shrugging.

"...Eggsy, I've already said I wasn't going to get angry," Harry insists, slow and gentle.

The laughter Eggsy manages to hold back dies in his throat after realising how genuinely Harry means it.

"That's it, Harry, honest."

Harry watches him, and Eggsy does his best not to shy away from his gaze. He's not ashamed, he shouldn't be. It's not like he's done anything wrong. Except the whole breaking in part. Which--yeah, shit. Still, he keeps his head high and his breathing steady, as much as anyone can with Harry Hart staring at them.

Finally, Harry nods, but there's something that could look like confusion on his face. "You didn't go in the other rooms."

"Nope."

"Not the even a 'peek'?"

"Why, d'ya _want_ me to take a peek?" He jokes.

Harry's face remains impassive, even as he muses, "You've got quite an amazing self-control for someone your age."

_Yeah, except for the part I kept breaking in, because I really couldn't help myself._

"I've got limits, I like to think," Eggsy proclaims.

"Mmm, and I have high hopes you'll manage to keep them."

Eggsy knows he needs to keep his mouth shut, but Harry's _really_ overestimating his self-control and it's making him a bit petulant so he can't quite help but tease.

"Were you worried I snuck in your bedroom and had a look at all your dirty secrets, Mr. Hart?"

There's a beat that's too serious for Eggsy's taste.

"...Maybe."

It strikes him then, the feeling at the pit of his stomach. It's not despair. Eggsy knows what that feels like. Despair doesn't set you in _exhilarating fire_.

Eggsy huffs, a bit too low and restless. Not breathless. Definitely not breathless. "I'm not a complete savage you know. Yeah, I've broken into your house and I'll probably keep at it, I'm telling you now. But as I've said, I've got limits. You don't need to worry about me breaking into your room when you're not there."

They hold each other's gaze, and Eggsy makes a considerable effort to subdue the fire smoldering in his system--but the fact is, the longer it goes on, the flames only go _higher_.

It's barely noticeable in sound, the way Harry takes a slow deep sigh. It's so quiet Eggsy that only picks up on it because he can't look away, and he sees how Harry's chest rises considerably before it gradually goes back down.

"I believe you," Harry says.

 _I trust you_ , Eggsy hears.

"Cool." He's proud of how his voice doesn't shake.

He sees Harry to the door, and he hangs about awkwardly as he watches him leave. Because who'd ever thought it'd be like this? This whole situation is mad, and Eggsy knows he'll go mental if he thinks it through. He'll probably obsess about it. So the best case scenario for now is to probably just go with the flow, wherever that takes him.

The sun is going down, turning the sky a shade darker every passing moment, hues of purple and orange bleeding in. Harry turns from where he's halfway through the private street of the mew. Somehow, he manages to seem surprised at the fact that Eggsy's still there, door slightly ajar behind him as he watches--which is dumb because he's the one who looked back in the first place. Eggsy refuses to let the embarrassment show and raises an eyebrow instead, quickly followed by the other one when Harry starts walking back towards the house.

"Uh???" Eggsy manages eloquently.

"You said you were going to meet with your friends soon?" Harry tries to get him to confirm.

"Yeah, tomorrow maybe, depends if they've got the time--?"

Harry reaches for something from his inner coat pocket. "There's a Nando's around the corner."

What does that have to do with anything?

"Yeah, I know, I saw." Eggsy watches as Harry pulls out fifty quid from his wallet--Fucking hell, _again_?

"Harry--"

"You might consider taking them there. Food will help, trust me," He insists, and his hand is a contrast to the cool breeze of the evening as he presses the money into Eggsy's palm.

"Christ." Eggsy can't help but look all over the place; the few street lamps around are already on, but thankfully no one's really out and about at this hour except for the occasional cars and the even rarer people who pass by on the main road.

Harry seems to get the same idea, gently urging him towards the warmth of the house. "Stay inside, lock the door. Don't answer for anyone. I have a key."

Torn between offence and amusement, Eggsy rolls his eyes. "I know."

"Lock the door when you leave."

"Since when do I not?" He shoots back, daring.

Harry shakes his head, huffing with a little smile on his lips as he steps back. "Goodnight, Eggsy."

"G'night, Harry."

It's only when he has his back against the closed door, a bit breathless, does he realise that he hasn't said those words since Barcelona.

 

\--»

 

When Harry gets to the café, he can immediately tell that Michelle Unwin is not in a good mood.

The first thing she says is: "How is he?"

"Yesterday? I've already told you. Upset."

"Today," She corrects impatiently.

"How odd. What makes you think he was with me at all?" Harry lightly blows on his tea.

She blatantly scrutinises him, and if it wasn't for his Kingsman training he would have failed to hold up his front.

Michelle deflates.

Harry makes a suggestion, managing to keep his cool. "Maybe you shouldn't have visited the man who lied to your face and abused your son when your back was turned."

She flinches, but something else crosses her features. Head held high, she peers at him with suspicion and maybe even disbelief. "He told you?"

"He might have."

Michelle is barely holding it together when she questions him, harsh. "Have you ever been in love?"

There's an extreme amount of guilt that hits him right then and there at such a question, but he immediately curtails his thought process in favour of scalding himself by drinking the hot tea.

Michelle continues, short and anguished. "I thought it was him, after Lee. It had been so long. Turns out didn't know shit."

"He hurt Eggsy," Harry says, just as low.

"I know. And I hate him for it. Fuckin' bastard."

"Then what is the problem?"

"They called me, the hospital did, when he got attacked by some maniac. And finally, after a long time, _finally_ I saw him. I saw him lyin' there, hurt."

Harry grits his teeth.

"Michelle--"

"I _know_. It's not what you think. I just. I can't help but want to ask him why. Why me? Why my son? I wanted him to wake up and look me in the eyes. I visited whenever I could hoping he would." Her hands fidget around her own cup, the hot tea splashing every now and then on her skin, leaving it red.

"You want closure," Harry supplies.

She nods. "Yeah, that's it, I suppose," Michelle sighs, resigned. "T'was stupid of me to think there was life after Lee."

"That's not true," Harry argues despite the bitter taste in his mouth.

"That's just the guilt talking, Harry Hart." She looks at him, shrewd.

He doesn't _need_ the guilt, no. But he can't quite deny that it's there. Even if it wasn't, Harry's not completely heartless. He can see it now, if not for her benefit, then for Eggsy--and by extension, him; Harry has to help her get back on her feet.

 

 


	17. 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I'm stooping to Chester King standards. I'll try not to go past 20.  
> \--  
> I just didn't want another repeat of the disaster that was ch. 14. That was an ugly long tedious chapter.  
> **This chapter was read over for meta purposes, not beta purposes--so if you find any error, you know where to kill this potatoe arse.

 

When Eggsy starts waking up, he's too comfortable to really notice that anything's off. It's only when he keeps on stretching and rolling around the sheets that it hits him: His bed ain't this big. And it definitely ain't this comfortable.

His eyes snap open.

The first thing he sees in the muted daylight is a snow-globe placed on the nightstand. The longer he stares at it, the more the maddening thud of his heart diminishes. Time seemingly slows down, and he gets to the point of distracted relaxation that he starts to focus on the slight particles of dust wafting about the air.

Eggsy could probably do this all day.

He huffs and turns to push his face against the pillow to breathe in deep and think; Where is he right now and why does he feel safe? Eggsy tries to remember, but what comes up are only vague flashes of a dream involving comfortable darkness and a familiar silhouette, which--is hardly anything new, to be honest.

Trying to desperately remember a dream is a situation he's been in before, so he knows that half the time, that shit don't work. He also knows that if he keeps at it, he'll just ruin the good mood he has going on.

He glances at the snow-globe again, squinting in confusion. It's then he realises that it's settled on his journal.

 _Fuck_.

Shooting up from the bed, he catches sight of the rest of his stuff on the floor against the opposite wall. He grabs everything in a hurry and makes his way out the door and down the stairs. It occurs to him halfway that he shouldn't be making so much noise but when he actually makes the attempt, that's when he notices the sounds and the _smell_ that can only be coming from the kitchen.

Ah. Shit.

Might as well get this over with.

Eggsy cautiously makes his way towards the kitchen entrance with the feeling of impending doom.

Don't ask him how, but he _knows_ Harry knows--except the man just keeps his back turned, focused on his cooking.

"Please sit down," the request comes.

Eggsy has the right mind to fucking leave in absolute shame, but he just sets his bag down against the wall just in case he needs to make a quick exit and places the journal on the table. As he sits, he takes a moment to bask at the fact that this is practically the first time he's seeing Harry fully out of a suit. He's wearing pyjama bottoms like some real people actually do and what is that? A wooly cardigan? That's so cheesy. Christ, is this really the same person who effortlessly took down a whole group of low-level criminals?

"If I may interrupt your dramatic inner monologue, would you prefer milk or orange juice?"

"Err," Eggsy starts. Harry's already at the fridge and Eggsy can't help but stare at the back of his head. It's not that it's messy or anything, but it's not exactly slicked and styled either. There's _something_ about it--

"Or water, perhaps?"

"--Orange juice is fine."

"With the bits or without?"

"With."

Harry turns around and--

It's lucky that Eggsy's sitting down at this very moment because he's pretty sure he'd have injured himself at some point. His mind is at the blue fucking screen of death and there's nothing but the repeat internal screaming of 'His hair. His _hair_. His _fucking_ hair.'

"Now that makes me wonder," Harry goes on, oblivious.

Eggsy swallows. "Wonder what?"

"...Why you bought two in the first place."

Under the table, Eggsy's fingernails dig in through the cloth of his track-pants when Harry goes to the table to pour him a glass of orange juice, closing the distance between them. Despite the heat of his presence beside him, Eggsy keeps his eyes front and doesn't look at him whatsoever. Harry's hair isn't exactly full-on disheveled, no, but it's...a bit _fluffy_. It has a bit of a wavy thing going on and--

"Well, 'cos it's not like I know what kind you like, do I?" He blurts in defence, a bit more heated than necessary.

Ah, fuck.

Covering for his nerves, he makes to reach for the juice but Harry takes the glass and places it far out of his reach.

"Wot--?"

"Not yet. You haven't eaten anything." He goes to pour him a glass of water and sets it near Eggsy, "Breakfast should be done any second."

Eggsy gulps the water down in sections while Harry focuses on cooking. His hair. Shit. He's seen it that way before. He thinks he remembers now. Running his fingers through the slight curls of it---But that was a dream though, wasn't it?

His hand clenches into a fist against his thigh. He remembers the _feel_ of it. It was so vivid. And Harry was looking down at him like--Fuck. No, it can't be real. Harry wouldn't have let it happen. But Eggsy was on the sofa when fell asleep and he woke up in a separate place all together, so--

"You'll have to forgive the cuisine choices, I'm afraid. Omelette, toast, and a bit of gammon steak--"

"How did I get all the way up in the room?" Eggsy blurts.

There's a momentary pause as Harry brings the food over. "Let's eat first, shall we?" He suggests, taking a seat at the head the table.

To be fair, the food looks and _smells_ so fucking good that it actually reminds him how hungry he really is, but still--he doesn't touch anything.

Harry huffs and reaches over to put food on Eggsy's plate. "Honestly, what do you think, Eggsy? I hardly possess supernatural powers of teleportation. How else could I have moved you to the guest room but carry you up there?"

Eggsy rolls his eyes. "Well, obviously but--" _How_ , he wants to ask. A fireman carry? An arm over the shoulder? Or-- "Nevermind." He shoves some food in his mouth and can't help but moan in appreciation and surprise. "Mmm, guv--"

He looks up to find Harry staring at him weird, eyes slightly wide and brows furrowed--Appalled, maybe, at his table manners. Eggsy shouldn't be embarrassed about what kind of person he is, and he usually ain't--but considering that he's kept breaking into this man's house and ended up being carried upstairs to bed and fed some quality breakfast instead of being punished for it, he can't help but try to chew and swallow down everything at a much slower pace.

"Look, I'm sorry, yeah?"

"Sorry about what?" Harry watches him, considering. Christ, is he really gonna have to spell it out for him?

"Don't be daft, Harry," Eggsy groans.

Harry only places the orange juice closer to Eggsy and waits, working on his own food, eating all prim and fancy and shit and it's starting to get on Eggsy's nerves.

"Look, I know it wasn't... _polite_ of me or anythin' to break into your place. I swear I wasn't plannin' on staying the night," He babbles on, trying to contain his shame, "It's just, I was cleanin' up after myself and it just evolved to me makin' your house spotless as I could and I was really tired after so I decided to take a quick nap and then..."

Eggsy trails off before he can say something dumb like, _and then I woke up in the middle of the night seeing you over me and so I touched your face and ran my fingers through your hair because I never seen it like that before, shit. Was that a dream or nah?_

"It's fine."

If exclamation marks and question marks had sounds, that's definitely what's going on in Eggsy's head right now.

"Wait--What do you _mean_ it's fine? I break into your house when you're not there and you say it's _fine_? What if I was gonna steal something?" He challenges.

"Lestrade called me."

Eggsy gasps, "Shit, the fuckin' bastard. He grassed me up!"

Harry quirks a sardonic eyebrow. "He's a policeman, Eggsy."

"Well, alright. So you know then?" He hedges, "About my mum and Dean? I mean it's probably part pity, 'cos apparently someone assaulted the guy while he was still in a coma, which is sick, ya know, but it's Dean. I'm honestly wonderin' why he's still alive." Eggsy scowls.

"I'm wondering myself," Harry mutters. It's probably something Eggsy wasn't meant to hear. The man's just staring down at his plate, almost in a daze. Now that Eggsy lets himself look, Harry actually seems pretty out of it, exhausted like he hasn't gotten much sleep. And if he's being honest? _Really, really soft_.

"You look like shit, Harry," He points out instead, or else he'll do something like pet his hair or something just as dumb.

"Thank you, Eggsy. Charmed, as always."

Eggsy grins, filling his plate for a second round.

Later, they end up moving to the living room for what Harry insists is a 'serious talk', and despite rolling his eyes, it suddenly strikes Eggsy that his mum doesn't know where he is. Even though he's still angry at her, he panics, rummaging through his bag for his mobile.

"Don't worry, I called her."

"What, really?" Eggsy stares.

"Yes, I called after I left you in bed."

 _Left you in bed_. Christ, the hammering of his heart is due to a different type of panic entirely. He needs to call Quinlan back real soon.

Eggsy ignores the heat flooding to his face. "And what'dya say?"

"That you were upset about something and you slept over at my place. I didn't specify what upset you, don't worry."

"And she just took it?" Eggsy questions, disbelieving.

"No, but she was simply relieved to have known where you were, safe and sound, I imagine." Harry sits on the armchair near the corner of the room by the windows. "It was half past two in the morning, Eggsy."

"Okay, alright, so..." Eggsy shrugs, calming down and losing it again, "Serious talk?"

"Breaking and entering," Harry starts. "Obviously, I can't stop you."

Eggsy barely stops himself from snorting. "You can't?"

Harry mutters, "Nothing short of taking measures causing you injuries..."

"Like what?" Eggsy scoffs, grinning, "Electric shocks?"

"Something along those lines--The point is, I can't stop you. Therefore, there must be rules in place."

Eggsy loses the grin, sitting up straighter on his place on the sofa. He's trying not to let on how breathing is a bit of a difficult task right now because--

_He's giving me permission. He's letting me stay._

"What kind of rules, Mr. Hart?"

There's an eyebrow raise at the sudden formality, but Harry only takes a slow, deep breath before glancing pointedly at the bar.

"Oh, that," Eggsy frowns, "I didn't touch it, I swear."

"I know. Imagine my surprise when I realise that a teenager's been breaking into my home but the liquor's been untouched."

Eggsy can't quite meet his eyes, because this is actually a bit embarrassing and he'd rather not tell, but Harry seems to be waiting for a response.

"Look, I don't--" He huffs, and powers through. "I try not to drink. Unless I get really careless or angry or really bored or something."

"Oh," Surprise flickers through Harry's expression. "That's...impressive."

Eggsy tries not to preen despite his shame, because what teenager doesn't like to drink, really? He always likes to pretend he's up for it, but more often than not he gets so annoying that people actually don't take him to pubs with them. It works enough for him.

"Weren't you upset enough yesterday?" Harry asks, head tilted in curiosity.

"Well, yeah, but..." _Being here took the edge off_ , he doesn't say. "Look, my drink got spiked at some party back in Year 10. I just don't."

The exhaustion on Harry's face is immediately overshadowed by the shuttered expression. "Who?"

Eggsy lets out a huff of nervous laughter. "I dunno, guv. Didn't really matter. I learned my lesson."

"What happened?"

"Nothin'. Christ. I just got a bit loose, that’s all. Talked too much. Didn't like that feeling. Especially in front of people I didn't really trust. That’s all," Eggsy reassures him.

Harry's arms start to relax on the armchair and Eggsy can practically see the exhaustion seep back in.

He makes a decision, rising from his seat. "Alright, that's it. Just leave the dishes on the sink, yeah? Go back to bed, I'll start on them."

"No, it's fine. I've got it. We still have more to cover," Harry insists.

"Haz, I swear, guv. I said you look like shit, I meant it, yeah?" He puts his hands on his hips, trying to look threatening. At he Harry's wide-eyed look though, he begrudgingly softens just a bit. "I'll be back, I swear. After work. Should be enough time for some shut-eye, then you can lecture me proper."

"...First of all, don't call me... _that_. Second," He sighs, giving up. "Alright."

Eggsy grins as he watches him stand and make his way to the stairs. Then he remembers something that wipes the grin from his face.

"Wait. What about my journal?"

Harry turns from his place on the first few steps like some damn prince. "What about it?"

Eggsy hates it when he does that blank, blinking innocent look. Christ.

He manages to take it slow. "Did you read it?"

"Eggsy, even if I was depraved enough to touch your things without permission--"

"You did touch them," He argues, pointedly looking at his bag.

"I had to move them so you'd see them the moment you wake up and not panic."

"But my journal--"

"Again, even if I had enough of a momentary lapse in character and manners to encroach on something so private of yours without permission, it's locked."

Eggsy's hand immediately flies to palm his necklace through his shirt before pulling it out. Sure enough, the key is there right behind the medal as it's supposed to be but--"Doesn't mean you couldn't have unlocked it."

There's a brief moment of silence.

"That implies I put my hand down your shirt while you were unconscious."

Fuck.

"Is that what you were trying to get across?" Harry asks, casual and polite.

Shit.

Abort, abort, abort.

"No," Eggsy tries not to stutter, "No, of course not."

He quickly heads for the kitchen.

"Eggsy--"

Eggsy can't help but turn around.

"--Why did you come here?" Going from how fast he just shut his mouth, Harry didn't mean to ask that.

"'Cos...I dunno," Eggsy shrugs, stalling, eyes on the floor. "I don't really have that much friends for a start and I still haven't figured out which lie to tell Ryan and Jamal so they're kinda mad about the whole Davy situation."

Harry nods. "I'm sorry."

It's not what Eggsy expected. He scrunches his face. "For what?"

"For having to lie to your friends. That must be difficult," Harry offers, sincere.

 _Yeah, yeah it is_ , Eggsy thinks, _but if it keeps you out of trouble..._

"Nah. Not really," Eggsy says, nodding to himself. "In fact, I think I'll call them up this weekend, explain it to them."

They just look at each other for a moment and Eggsy huffs, "Now, go on. Shoo. Off to bed, Harry."

 

»

 

Eggsy gets home to take a quick shower and change his clothes. His mum is waiting for him once he's done but he can feel the indignation rise back up when he looks at her so he ignores her until she calls out his name, baffled and offended.

He doesn't feel like dealing with this so he goes straight for it. "You don't have the right to be offended right now. 'Cos I know about you visitin' _him_ at the hospital."

She pales and she scrambles to explain but Eggsy wants none of it. "I just need some space, alright?"

He's double-checking the stuff in his bag when she asks, "Are you stayin' at his place? Again?"

Eggsy stills. "No. I'll be off at Ryan's for the day, but I'll come home to sleep. And then it'll be the same tomorrow and the day after that until I'm less and less angry and can _at least_ stand to be around you."

He doesn't look at her and resists feeling bad about his cutting remark as he makes his way for the door.

"Eggsy..." She tries.

"Don't call me unless it's an emergency."

 

»

 

His training session with Anna consists of going over anatomy again, but this time they also get started on the types of oils and fragrances and shit. It's actually pretty soothing and it takes his mind off the whole thing with his mum and Dean for a bit. Near the end though, it just gets too overwhelming, all the smell mixing together until he can't tell them apart and he really can't concentrate anymore. Thankfully, she takes pity on him and lets him go early. During the commute to work, he gets on his mobile and dials.

" _Fuck. It's barely noon._ "

"Quinlan. It's like, three in the afternoon."

" _Well, fuck--It's like, three in the afternoon._ "

"Yeah, bruv, and it's the weekend. There's so much to do than sleep in."

" _You sound chipper. Why do you sound chipper?_ "

Eggsy can practically picture him squint his eyes in suspicion.

"Okay, so say that--theoretically--I skipped the sexuality crisis part..."

" _...Holy fuck. Unwin--That was quick. I mean I know that was the point, but it's only been less than twenty-four hours since we've that conversation._ "

"Theoretically, Quin. I said, theoretically." Eggsy emphasises.

" _Oh, I see. Still living on the edge._ "

"Right, yeah. How do I begin?--Theoretically."

" _How do you begin what?_ "

"Well, you know."

" _No, Eggsy. I don't know. I'm not a mind reader despite what you and Roxy think. I'm not a woodland fey undercover in the world of mortal beings._ "

"Well, how do I...you know."

"... _Fuck's sake, go watch some gay porn or something, leave me alone._ "

"What?!" Eggsy sputters, eyes flitting about his surroundings as if anyone's actually capable of hearing the other side of the conversation. "Where would I even go to watch it? I have a Nokia from two thousand and one, Quinlan."

The call drops. Damn, Quinlan really needs to stop doing that shit.

Eggsy tries his best to hold off on going back to Harry's place. He did say 'after work', there's no need to look desperate. It's also a good opportunity to think about the state of things, really. Except he kinda holds off on that too and spends his time procrastinating by going to work early and helping Max with the new shipments of books and overcoming boredom. When he does leave work, he walks with Max to the tube station, faking at how has to go reload his Oyster card with an added whine at the long queue, telling him to go ahead. After waiting a bit to make sure he's finally gone, Eggsy goes back to Harry's.

He's been studying in the living room for who knows how long when he hears the plumbing go on from the floor above. Barely half an hour later, the footsteps come down the stairs.

It's weird, really, the disappointment that hits Eggsy when he sees Harry all prim and proper in his suit, hair all nice and styled. "The hell, guv, you goin' to work or somethin'?"

"Just a quick meeting in an hour or so. There should be enough time for our conversation." He glances at Eggsy's books spread out on the coffee table. "I take it you've been here quite a while. Why didn't you wake me?"

"If you didn't notice me coming in, that means you were _really_ knackered." Eggsy shoots him a pointed look. "And I don't know what tailors have meetings about, but going from how you've barely been home all week and you lookin' like shit, you deserve a day off."

"It's not about what I deserve, Eggsy--Would you like something to drink?"

"Nah, helped myself to water earlier."

"Good to know you're already feeling at home," Harry dryly quips, taking his place on the armchair across, waiting.

"Right. More rules." Eggsy takes a few seconds to arrange his things, an attempt to stall and settle his nerves.

"Let's start with a recap of the last week," Harry suggests, "I need you to be honest, and I need you to know that I won't be angry."

Eggsy knows that he's trying to make him feel at ease, but what the fuck, that completely has the opposite effect. He throws himself to the wind anyway, letting the adrenaline rush through. "Alright. Shoot."

Harry is completely calm as he questions, "While you were in my house, what have you done, and what rooms have you entered?"

"The loo, the kitchen..." Eggsy tries not to visibly cringe. "I snuck in your office--once. But that was just 'cos I was wonderin' if you were actually home and just fell asleep at your desk like last time or somethin'."

"And?" Harry prompts, unnaturally still. Eggsy squints at him.

"And...you rearranged everything. Not bad, I suppose, but I don't know why you would? It looked better when the desk was facing the balcony door windows, not the far wall. I mean I'm not an interior designer, so maybe it's just me, but the front-pages of _The Sun'_ s hardly any match to what the view of the balcony offers. What's up with that, by the way?"

There's a noticeable relaxation at his babble, and Harry gives a small smile. "It's a long story and I've only got an hour before I have to leave."

Eggsy doesn't pout. He purses his lips, there's a difference, okay?

Harry motions for him to continue but Eggsy just stares on, because what else could possibly he say?

"...That's it." He humours him, shrugging.

"...Eggsy, I've already said I wasn't going to get angry," Harry insists, slow and gentle.

The laughter Eggsy manages to hold back dies in his throat after realising how genuinely Harry means it.

"That's it, Harry, honest."

Harry watches him, and Eggsy does his best not to shy away from his gaze. He's not ashamed, he shouldn't be. It's not like he's done anything wrong. Except the whole breaking in part. Which--yeah, shit. Still, he keeps his head high and his breathing steady, as much as anyone can with Harry Hart staring at them.

Finally, Harry nods, but there's something that could look like confusion on his face. "You didn't go in the other rooms."

"Nope."

"Not the even a 'peek'?"

"Why, d'ya _want_ me to take a peek?" He jokes.

Harry's face remains impassive, even as he muses, "You've got quite an amazing self-control for someone your age."

_Yeah, except for the part I kept breaking in, because I really couldn't help myself._

"I've got limits, I like to think," Eggsy proclaims.

"Mmm, and I have high hopes you'll manage to keep them."

Eggsy knows he needs to keep his mouth shut, but Harry's _really_ overestimating his self-control and it's making him a bit petulant so he can't quite help but tease.

"Were you worried I snuck in your bedroom and had a look at all your dirty secrets, Mr. Hart?"

There's a beat that's too serious for Eggsy's taste.

"...Maybe."

It strikes him then, the feeling at the pit of his stomach. It's not despair. Eggsy knows what that feels like. Despair doesn't set you in _exhilarating fire_.

Eggsy huffs, a bit too low and restless. Not breathless. Definitely not breathless. "I'm not a complete savage you know. Yeah, I've broken into your house and I'll probably keep at it, I'm telling you now. But as I've said, I've got limits. You don't need to worry about me breaking into your room when you're not there."

They hold each other's gaze, and Eggsy makes a considerable effort to subdue the fire smoldering in his system--but the fact is, the longer it goes on, the flames only go _higher_.

It's barely noticeable in sound, the way Harry takes a slow deep sigh. It's so quiet Eggsy that only picks up on it because he can't look away, and he sees how Harry's chest rises considerably before it gradually goes back down.

"I believe you," Harry says.

 _I trust you_ , Eggsy hears.

"Cool." He's proud of how his voice doesn't shake.

He sees Harry to the door, and he hangs about awkwardly as he watches him leave. Because who'd ever thought it'd be like this? This whole situation is mad, and Eggsy knows he'll go mental if he thinks it through. He'll probably obsess about it. So the best case scenario for now is to probably just go with the flow, wherever that takes him.

The sun is going down, turning the sky a shade darker every passing moment, hues of purple and orange bleeding in. Harry turns from where he's halfway through the private street of the mew. Somehow, he manages to seem surprised at the fact that Eggsy's still there, door slightly ajar behind him as he watches--which is dumb because he's the one who looked back in the first place. Eggsy refuses to let the embarrassment show and raises an eyebrow instead, quickly followed by the other one when Harry starts walking back towards the house.

"Uh???" Eggsy manages eloquently.

"You said you were going to meet with your friends soon?" Harry tries to get him to confirm.

"Yeah, tomorrow maybe, depends if they've got the time--?"

Harry reaches for something from his inner coat pocket. "There's a Nando's around the corner."

What does that have to do with anything?

"Yeah, I know, I saw." Eggsy watches as Harry pulls out fifty quid from his wallet--Fucking hell, _again_?

"Harry--"

"You might consider taking them there. Food will help, trust me," He insists, and his hand is a contrast to the cool breeze of the evening as he presses the money into Eggsy's palm.

"Christ." Eggsy can't help but look all over the place; the few street lamps around are already on, but thankfully no one's really out and about at this hour except for the occasional cars and the even rarer people who pass by on the main road.

Harry seems to get the same idea, gently urging him towards the warmth of the house. "Stay inside, lock the door. Don't answer for anyone. I have a key."

Torn between offence and amusement, Eggsy rolls his eyes. "I know."

"Lock the door when you leave."

"Since when do I not?" He shoots back, daring.

Harry shakes his head, huffing with a little smile on his lips as he steps back. "Goodnight, Eggsy."

"G'night, Harry."

It's only when he has his back against the closed door, a bit breathless, does he realise that he hasn't said those words since Barcelona.

 

\--»

 

When Harry gets to the café, he can immediately tell that Michelle Unwin is not in a good mood.

The first thing she says is: "How is he?"

"Yesterday? I've already told you. Upset."

"Today," She corrects impatiently.

"How odd. What makes you think he was with me at all?" Harry lightly blows on his tea.

She blatantly scrutinises him, and if it wasn't for his Kingsman training he would have failed to hold up his front.

Michelle deflates.

Harry makes a suggestion, managing to keep his cool. "Maybe you shouldn't have visited the man who lied to your face and abused your son when your back was turned."

She flinches, but something else crosses her features. Head held high, she peers at him with suspicion and maybe even disbelief. "He told you?"

"He might have."

Michelle is barely holding it together when she questions him, harsh. "Have you ever been in love?"

There's an extreme amount of guilt that hits him right then and there at such a question, but he immediately curtails his thought process in favour of scalding himself by drinking the hot tea.

Michelle continues, short and anguished. "I thought it was him, after Lee. It had been so long. Turns out didn't know shit."

"He hurt Eggsy," Harry says, just as low.

"I know. And I hate him for it. Fuckin' bastard."

"Then what is the problem?"

"They called me, the hospital did, when he got attacked by some maniac. And finally, after a long time, _finally_ I saw him. I saw him lyin' there, hurt."

Harry grits his teeth.

"Michelle--"

"I _know_. It's not what you think. I just. I can't help but want to ask him why. Why me? Why my son? I wanted him to wake up and look me in the eyes. I visited whenever I could hoping he would." Her hands fidget around her own cup, the hot tea splashing every now and then on her skin, leaving it red.

"You want closure," Harry supplies.

She nods. "Yeah, that's it, I suppose," Michelle sighs, resigned. "T'was stupid of me to think there was life after Lee."

"That's not true," Harry argues despite the bitter taste in his mouth.

"That's just the guilt talking, Harry Hart." She looks at him, shrewd.

He doesn't _need_ the guilt, no. But he can't quite deny that it's there. Even if it wasn't, Harry's not completely heartless. He can see it now, if not for her benefit, then for Eggsy--and by extension, him; Harry has to help her get back on her feet.

 

 


	18. 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ....The chapter where I largely lull you with a false sense of security through boring shitty writing.  
>  and Eggsy's long day at school. And the long weekend of shopping.  
> .......and the beginning of one sided smut.  
> and angst.  
> -  
> Practically, a mess.  
> My mess.

 

It's only half past two in the afternoon and Harry is already putting the chicken in the oven for a slow cook that should be done by dinner time. Wiping his hand on a towel, he surveys his kitchen and looks over his dining room. It's still probably far too early to set the table.

His mobile rings.

" _Hey..._ " Eggsy starts.

"...Yes?" Harry waits, hoping that Eggsy hasn't changed his mind about all the shopping they did last night.

" _...I'm not calling at a bad time or anything, yeah?_ " He stalls.

"No, not at all."

" _Good, good._ _So, okay. The rain's stopped for the mo'..._ "

Harry peers through the blinds of one of his kitchen windows. Which is quite unnecessary, really, since he's heard it stop about half an hour ago. "Yes. Yes, it has."

" _...so can I maybe come over?_ " Eggsy hedges. " _Like I know you said dinner was at seven, but--_ "

"Oh, of course. Do," Harry hastily says, opening the cupboards to look for a proper serving platter.

" _...Yeah?_ "

"Yes."

" _...Okay. Nice. Good..._ "

There's a beat and Harry takes the opportunity to take the lemon pie out of its box, placing it on the platter.

" _Well, I'm uhh--I'm kinda outside, so..._ " Eggsy mumbles.

Harry stills.

Refraining from asking why Eggsy doesn't simply break in like he always does, he only puts the cover on the platter before putting the whole thing in the fridge. Harry almost forgets about his apron before he hangs it up and makes his way to open the door.

The whole street is damp with a few puddles on the cobblestones. While the rain has indeed stopped, the sky is still grey and partly cloudy. But when Eggsy--back turned and hunched up in his coat as he frowns at his mobile--finally twists towards Harry, the whole world shifts, becoming slightly _brighter_ in sync with the genuine smile that graces the boy's face.

Harry closes his mouth, blinking. When time catches up, Eggsy's already making his way towards him, eyes to the ground, hands in his pockets.

"Sorry. Thought I'd take the chance and not wait until it's pouring," He explains.

"...No, not at all. Please," Harry insists, moving aside as he beckons him in. "If I may take your coat?"

"Yeah, sure," He obliges, taking it off. Harry suspects that he's wearing the same black long-sleeve that he wore when he first broke into this house, and somehow he finds that humorous. He manages to keep his face even as Eggsy goes on, "Don't worry, I'll be up in my room. I won't be a bother."

"Oh no," Harry decides. "This would be a good opportunity to teach you the basis of table etiquette."

 

\--

 

Initially, Eggsy gives him his best 'are you taking the piss right now' look, but like most things with Harry, he ends up going along with it anyway. It doesn't turn out to be as boring as he thought it would be. Because Harry fails in hiding these little smiles when Eggsy makes his dramatic commentary as they set up the table.

There are too many damn forks and spoons and knives and plates. It's the type of shit that he's only seen in period dramas on the BBC--and that one course from Wetherby Prep, but still, he ain't telling Harry that.

There's a certain way that Harry teaches, engaging and almost mesmerising. His voice, his movement. The way his hands move over the knife. The way his fingers close around the handle, graceful but firm, promising a hidden kind of risk--and that's when Eggsy remembers the kind of damage Harry's already done.

How he handled Dean's goons with only an umbrella as a weapon, second to his bare hands. How he put Dean in a coma with one thrown helmet. How strong he was when he held Eggsy back, pushing him against the brick wall, arm across his shoulders, hand on his chest, then a palm against his throat, testing and--

The heat that rushes through him should be fucking illegal.

But it's there anyway. And he can only swallow and shift in his seat as Harry gives him a chiding look. "Eggsy."

"It's what you've got in the oven," Eggsy hastily explains. "Bit distracting. Smells real nice, Harry."

He gets a dignified eye-roll but Eggsy can tell that Harry's chuffed at the compliment.

Eggsy tries not to preen, and teases instead, "You know, I can't believe you've already put it in there when we have about four hours till dinner."

"Well, sometimes all you need is that slow burn for that exquisite flavour."

A wave of goosebumps prickle Eggsy's skin, and he can only nod, hoping his swallowing isn't too obvious. Because what the fuck, why does everything Harry say sound so fucking dirty, like what is up with that?

A buzzing catches both their attention and Eggsy looks around for the source, his gaze ultimately falling back to Harry whose face has gone blank, body gone noticeably still.

Eggsy involuntarily glances at Harry's trousers, sees the slight vibration of the fabric over one of his pockets. He forces his eyes up to find that Harry's already watching him.

"Well," Eggsy starts, ignoring the sense of dread and raising his eyebrows. "Pick up."

 

\--

 

" _Galahad, where are your glasses?_ " Merlin immediately questions.

Harry shuts the door to his office. "I was sleeping in, Merlin. I just returned from a non-stop seventeen-hour mission from Glasgow yesterday afternoon."

" _What a coincidence,_ " Merlin states, tone flat. " _There's been an attack at Glasgow Airport half an hour ago. You're needed in HQ._ "

 

»

 

On his way to the stairs, he notices the guest room door is slightly ajar, and Harry knocks lightly, pushing it further open. Eggsy's sat by his desk, emptily staring at the rest of the room. Harry is at a loss. He knows he has to leave, but he doesn't quite know how to begin the conversation.

Eggsy's brows furrow before he finally deigns to look at Harry.

"Why'd you knock?"

"...It's your room," He answers.

Eggsy tilts his head. "But it's your house."

Harry gets the sense that they're both stalling, which means that Eggsy must have figured it out by now--that is, if the suit hasn't already given it away.

"Nevertheless, may I come in?" He asks softly.

Eggsy shrugs before straightening up in his seat and affecting a magnanimous attitude, grandly gesturing around the small room largely occupied by the bed. "Please. Have a seat while you're at it."

Harry sits on the bed, not quite meeting his gaze. "Let me start off by saying that I genuinely apologise--"

"It's fine, Harry. Go to work."

When he truly looks, Harry can't fully parse out Eggsy's expression. And it unsettles him. What does it mean? Is this--? Is he...sulking?

"Are you sulking?" Harry asks, feeling rather foolish.

Eggsy huffs. "No, Harry. I ain't sulking." He rolls his eyes and wheels his chair much closer towards him, gaze directly meeting his. "Needs must, yeah?"

Harry can only nod, eyes roving over Eggsy's face as he tries to gage his sincerity. "I'll make it up to you," He hears himself say.

"Oh yeah?" Eggsy murmurs, a glint in his eyes. "Definitely."

Pulling back, Harry stands and reaches for something in his inner suit pocket. "Before I forget, I do try to keep my promises." He hands the slim box over down to Eggsy, who takes it, a bit incredulous. "Go on."

The look on Eggsy's face is a marvel to witness when he opens the box to see the gold and chrome Nokia. "Thanks, Harry."

He starts fiddling with it, watching in surprise as it turns on. Harry takes the chance to inch his way out the door.

"Wait. I thought you said it was broken?" Eggsy questions.

Harry huffs. "No, I said it was damaged. Notice the long scratch on the screen," He explains, hoping that's the last of it.

Eggsy gives him a flat look, ultimately biting his cheek to hide an oncoming smile until it dies down. "Let me walk you to the door."

On their way there, the guilt steadily makes its way back. Even as Eggsy fills the silence with his babbles.

"Don't worry, I'll put all the plates and stuff where they belong. Just don't be surprised if there ain't any of the chicken left when you get home, I swear--"

Eggsy opens the door for him and Harry makes his way over the tiny step outside. "Oi, don't forget your coat, yeah?" He hands it over, peering outside at the sky. "It's probably gonna rain again."

Harry stares. It occurs to him then that it's all quite surreal. Eggsy meets his gaze and frowns. "Put your coat on. It's cold."

Absently, Harry finds himself putting it on. Eggsy reaches over, turning the collar up, making him sway slightly. From this arrangement, the two of them on different levels, they're nearly the same height.

"You sure you don't want your scarf? I can go get it for you real quick," Eggsy mutters, still fussing with Harry's coat, buttoning it down.

"It's fine, Eggsy." He puts his hands over his, stopping his movements. "Thank you."

The guilt plagues him again. But this time, there's a nagging suspicion that it's from a different root altogether as he stares down at their hands.

"Hey," Eggsy murmurs, soft. And it makes him look up. "It's fine," He says, genuine and serious, and Harry forgets for a moment what he's talking about until Eggsy continues, "Work is work. Can't do nothing about it, yeah? Just be safe."

Eggsy's hands turn over under his and momentarily clutches. It's helpless, how Harry immediately returns it.

 

\--»

 

For a long time, Eggsy just sits on the sofa. Thinking.

It's better that it turned out this way, he decides. Because he's already spent so much time with Harry yesterday, what with the shopping binge and all. Harry helped him pick out a suit and insisted he be tailored for measurements. Which was a bit excessive, but thankfully the store tailor wasn't available, so they're set to go again sometime next week for a proper fitting--That is if Eggsy fails in sabotaging the whole thing by making excuses not to go and letting prom pass by altogether.

What he couldn't escape though, was Harry buying him other things instead. Still, Eggsy managed to convince him not to buy too many dress shirts. Eggsy works in a bookshop for hell's sake, he ain't a bloody banker. And complaining about hunger was a successful way to steer Harry away from the formal shoes department and out of Selfridges altogether.

They ended up getting McDonalds from Bond Street Station, and Eggsy almost thought they were gonna take the tube home, which shouldn't be an exciting thing to begin with, but come on--Harry Hart, Posh International Tailor, using the tube? Unfortunately, Harry had started making his way back outside, and of course, Eggsy followed.

It seemed like an impossible feat, Harry holding all the bags in one hand and the umbrella in the other as they go on walking through the thinning crowd. Eggsy did offer to take some of them, but Harry had absolutely refused, even as Eggsy shook the bag of McDonalds at him.

"Oh come on," Eggsy had said, taking a particular french-fry out and waving it at him, "You know you want to."

Harry only rolled his eyes. "That's undignified."

"It's not gonna be crispy when we get home, much less in a few minutes," Eggsy coaxed, chomping on the single fry and exaggerating on a noise. " _Mmm_."

He held out another piece to him, just to be annoying really, doing it again and again. Harry Hart is a posh dignified gentleman. Of course, Eggsy wasn't stupid enough to believe he'd ever give in.

Which is why an unholy yelp escaped him when Harry leaned over and snatched it with his mouth. It all happened so quick that even in remembering it as it happened a mere few seconds ago, Eggsy had his doubts, especially as he stared at Harry's carefully neutral expression.

Eggsy squinted at him in suspicion, but they walked on, ending up entering Hyde Park through Cumberland Gate and resting on one of the benches. They settled down in the cold and passed the McDonald's bag back and forth to each other.

So yeah, _anyway_. Shopping. And...time spending. They did a lot of that last night.

Now, _well_. Maybe it's better to have a bit of space, because he doesn't want Harry to get sick of him right then and there. So yeah. It's fine.

Not giving Harry any shit about it was the right thing to do. Very mature.

He's not pouting. He's pursing his lips, it's totally different.

That train of thought leads him to The Theory. That's another good thing too about Harry being away. Eggsy can spend the rest of the day thinking about it, how he can figure it out, whether or not it's true.

He considers asking Quinlan or even Roxy for help--But then what would he even say?

 _'Hey, I think this..._ older gentleman _likes buying me things and he might just get disappointed if he doesn't get to, but how do I know for sure?'_

Eggsy's already scrapped the idea the moment 'older gentleman' became actual words formed in his head. Fucking christ.

Instead, he pulls his mobile out and decides to test the waters, texting Quinlan real quick.

 

_‘What's the scientific process again?’_

 

**30\. 06. 2007 - Queenie:**

_You have a Macbook, figure it out._

 

Because Eggsy's a lazy sod who can't be arsed to go all the way up and down the stairs again, he just texts back, getting more and more annoying every other minute.

 

_:(_

 

_:'(_

 

_:'(((_

 

 

**30\. 06. 2007 - Queenie:**

_Scientific Method:_

_1\. Formulate question_  
_2\. Background research_  
_3\. Hypothesis_  
_4\. Prediction_  
_5\. Testing_  
_6\. Analysis_  
_7\. Conclusion_

**30\. 06. 2007 - Queenie:**

_8\. You're an absolute twat. Leave me alone._

 

Eggsy grins.

 

_‘Luv u too m8’_

 

He's a bit rusty on the whole thing, really. Eggsy's not even sure if 'hypothesis' means exactly what he thinks it means. But by the time he's put away all the plates and utensils in the kitchen, he's made a draft of it, his handwriting looking like shit from the adrenaline that made his hand shake.

 

 

Eggsy looks over it again until it dawns on him how dumb and ridiculous he's being. Thankfully, the smell of the chicken distracts him enough to prompt a closer look at the oven. He folds the paper and puts it as deep as he can in his pocket. He can figure it out later.

 

»»

 

Eggsy tries to spend the rest of the weekend _not_ at Harry's place.

Because he wasn't careful, his mum saw his new mobile, and Eggsy had to quickly explain that he won it from some questionnaire raffle, and it took a bit of convincing, but she believed him in the end. Other than that, she tells him that she's had a few job offers but there are next levels of interviews she has to go through and stuff. All in all, she seems much better, and she looks really happy when Eggsy asks more questions and generally takes an interest in the whole thing. It feels pretty good to be mending their relationship and stuff, because he does miss her.

Same thing with his friends when he takes the time to hang out with them. Ryan refuses to go to prom for the exact same reason Eggsy does, even though it's obvious he wants to. He instead thinks of planning a 'romantic' night in with his girl, which both Jamal and Eggsy roll their eyes and snicker at him for.

"What about you, Jamal?" Eggsy asks.

Jamal gives him a flat look. "Proms are for you lot who've finished with your exams."

"But you didn't go last year did you? Plus, you have a job, mate, surely you can afford it?" Ryan questions.

"It's an apprenticeship, I don't get paid much. I won't waste it like Gaz here will."

"Oi, what makes you think I'm going?" Eggsy protests.

Jamal rolls his eyes. "Please, it's not exactly a secret that you and Yvonne Jansen's been pretty close lately."

Ryan whoops out loud, whistling. "Eggsy Unwin, gonna get down with _that_."

Eggsy shoots them a glare. But really, what can he say? He just lets Yvonne Jansen be because first of all, avoiding her takes real effort. Second, it's better to watch out for Harry like this. It feels very sneaky, like he's some sort of undercover spy, sleeping with the enemy for intel.

He grumbles about being set up with Alicia Longman instead as a non-committal reply. It doesn't really stop the teasing.

Harry's house is empty when Eggsy irritably takes the chance to burn Yvonne's [playlist](http://8tracks.com/0-q-0/yvonne-jansen-s-mixtape) into his Macbook and transfer the tracks into the Nokia that Harry has given back.

Just because.

He justifies it as 'getting into the mind of the enemy'.

And really that's how Eggsy starts to lose his mind.

The playlist plays on as he does homework, when he gets a bit of exercise in, when he goes to and from places, walking, or even as he stands to leave his seat on the tube to let an old lady sit instead. Its become a bad habit and he notices that shit too late and by then he's humming some of the songs under his breath.

And he hates himself for it, 'cos they're stupid songs anyway and half of them aren't even the type of shit Eggsy lets himself listen to. But they're catchy _as fuck_.

He glares at Yvonne.

"What?" She narrows her eyes.

Eggsy just sucks the straw much harder on his juice-box. 'Cos fuck yeah, Harry has a pack of juice-boxes in his pantry and it ain't 'cos of her is it? It's for _Eggsy_. And it's for Eggsy _alone_. She'd never have--Harry would never--

That train of thought makes Eggsy stop. And he feels his mouth go slack in surprise.

Because--

It's true. _Holy shit_. It's fucking true.

He didn't even realise it.

Harry doesn't drink from a fucking juice-box like a fucking child. _Eggsy_ does.

Shame aside, Eggsy pats his pockets for the Theory draft before he remembers that it's in his jeans back at home. Tsk. He has to edit that shit and add this revelation in.

"Oi," Yvonne tries to get his attention. "What's your answer?"

"Answer to what?" Eggsy questions, distracted.

"Prom? Alicia?" She prompts, slow.

"Oh."

He forgot about that.

Yvonne raises a severe eyebrow, and Eggsy manages not to cringe.

"Err. Let me think about it some more--"

She pulls his tie to draw him closer and stares into his eyes as she seethes, "Prom is in less than two weeks. And I have to make sure whether or not you'll _match_. So," She pauses, taking a calming breath, and smiles sweetly. "I will give you three fucking days. I don't care how fit I think you are."

 

\--»

 

Harry had no fault in the airport bombing. At least that's what Mordred insists, defending Harry against Merlin's pointed statements and questions.

"Mordred, stand down," Harry orders.

"But sir--"

"Stand down," He repeats, quiet. "Take a break."

Mordred leaves, and Merlin continues. "Well, what do you know. Barely a month with you and he's already on your side. Maybe the boy's got a crush, Galahad."

Harry gives him a flat look. "I did my job. I did it with the intel that was passed down to me."

"Yes, you did. Which is _why_ ," Merlin emphasises, stern and genuine, "You shouldn't feel any guilt. It was out of your hands. No one died except for the perpetrator himself. Many suspect this is linked to Gordon Brown's appointment as prime minister a few days ago, but of course Downing Street will deny that."

Harry is stuck attending meeting after meetings, repeating his mission report over and over. There is an unspoken blame in every stare and every word from everyone in attendance merely because he was too close to the incident when it occurred, despite the truth.

The worst part is that he's faced with Mycroft again.

 

\--»

 

Harry briefly comes home on Tuesday afternoon.

Eggsy says 'briefly', because Harry gets in, hangs his umbrella on the coat rack, and quickly goes upstairs only to go back down wearing a different suit under the same coat with a suitcase in hand.

He's obviously in a mood and in a hurry because Eggsy's quips go ignored and Harry's _short_ with him in a way he's never been before.

And wow. Yeah, it _stings_. Going from the Juice-Box Revelation to _this_ really knocks him down a peg or two. Eggsy's stomach clenches, unpleasant and aggravating.

Aggravating, because it's so _stupid_ to be even be a tiny bit affected. And Eggsy just bites his cheek to keep his mouth shut.

Eggsy tries really hard to be understanding, because hey, maybe even Harry Hart has a bad day. Right?

He tries to be understanding even as the door shuts, leaving him to swallow down the sensation in his throat, blinking up at the ceiling.

Maybe, just maybe, this is it. Harry's finally gotten sick of him. Damn, that really didn't take long did it?

Christ.

Eggsy's still having a difficult time managing his breaths when he realises the umbrella's still on the coat rack.

And it's quite odd, because he actually doesn't remember Harry taking one with him when he left last time. He frowns, walking towards it.

It's even weirder how his hand hovers, hesitating to touch. It's as if he's doing something really naughty when he lifts it from its place, grip firm and steady.

It has a bit of a weight, and it feels full in his hand. His fingers don’t even get to close around it all the way.

Absently, Eggsy licks his lips, staring down at it.

He doesn't even hear it when the door opens, prompting him to do a double-take before shutting down with a blank face. Harry stares at him, still halfway outside in the rain, and Eggsy refuses to feel caught and ashamed as he silently urges him to take the umbrella.

Harry only keeps watching him with this odd expression, and Eggsy raises an eyebrow, offering it again, doing his best to look unaffected. 'Cos Eggsy ain't a fucking kid no more, he ain't just gonna fucking cry or some shit just because.

When Harry finally takes it from him, their fingers brush. The sheer _warmth_ of him immediately forces Eggsy to look down. He has to, or else--

There's something that sounds like a _sigh_ , and the next thing he knows is that he's being _pulled_ and--

Eggsy freezes.

Harry's arms are warm and steady around him and--It's a hug. Eggsy's being _hugged_.

"I'm sorry," Harry murmurs, soft against Eggsy's hair, and Eggsy _breaks_ , feeling his face get messed up like a fucking idiot as Harry goes on, "That was rude of me. I'm sorry."

Eggsy lets his face fall against Harry's shoulder, hiding as his hands automatically grab at him, slow, clutching at his coat--because damn fucking _right_ that was fucking _rude_.

Geez. Fucking wanker. He hasn't seen him for like three days with no fucking messages or calls or replies, and then he had to go do that shit.

Eggsy hisses, grip gradually getting tighter.

 _Fucking fuck_.

"Bloody wanker," He mutters.

"I know," Harry sighs, his thumb circling on the back of Eggsy's neck. The shiver that ripples through Eggsy can easily be blamed on the open door and the cold that’s seeping in.

"Do that again and see what happens, I fucking dare you," He threatens mulishly instead.

"I'd rather not," Harry huffs.

Damn fucking right.

Eggsy takes a deep breath, and tries to be really mature despite everything, patting the creases he's made on the back of Harry's coat. "Okay, alright. Off to work you go," He mumbles, and for a moment, Harry seems to fold in, getting heavier against Eggsy before pulling back, lips brushing against Eggsy's temple.

 

»

 

 _That shit was the last straw_ , Eggsy thinks as he tries to ignore the localised spot of heat on his temple.

That can't have been on purpose. Harry didn't even notice. Or looked like he noticed. So it was purely accidental. And Eggsy shouldn't think about it anymore.

Shouldn't.

 

\--»

 

Merlin starts with his briefing.

"While this is definitely connected to the attack a few days ago, this should be less of an issue. This'll be a typical honeypot assignment, gentlemen."

Harry tilts his head up a fraction. "Is that so?"

"Yes, try not to to underestimate her, please. Your lives could easily depend on it. This doesn't need to be said, but for propriety's sake I'm doing it anyway." Merlin shoots a pointed look at the newly knighted [Kay](http://i.imgur.com/bkCBu6D.jpg).

"Well," Harry starts, offhand, "It seems you have your work cut out for you, Agent Kay."

Merlin's detestable gaze shifts towards Harry. "I've given you the file Galahad. _You_ are her type, not Agent Kay. You will be running point on that."

It takes a greater amount of effort than it should to thin his pursed lips back to neutral.

 

\--»

 

Eggsy's still trying not to think about it when he tells Yvonne--serious, polite and sorry--that _no, thank you_ , he won't be going to prom with Alicia Longman.

He absently touches his temple.

 

\--»»

 

The party is in full-swing. As full-swing as a party full of high-brow politicians and media personalities can be, smiling at each other with empty eyes, chattering with thinly-veiled egocentrism.

Harry can hear the smirk through the comms.

"Well, well, Agent Galahad," Kay teases. "You know, in my encounters with the Arthurian legends, it has been said that Galahad is the _purest_ and most noble of knights. Surely it can't be true even in reality?"

Harry murmurs mildly into his champagne glass, "The round table isn't exactly fucking round, is it, Kay?" 

He briefly catches sight of the mark.

Arabella Worthington is exceptionally attractive, wealthy, graceful and intelligent. With a single glance, these are the things that immediately come to mind.

She is also their main lead, suspected to have financed independent terrorist groups, such as the ones who perpetuated the desperate attack on Glasgow Airport as a result of Harry having crippled most of their Glasgow operatives, in addition to the foiled London bombs on the very same day previous the attack itself.

Merlin cuts in, serious. "Stop the teasing, Kay. Agent Galahad will likely fuck her into the mattress just to give us an earful," He sighs, properly long-suffering, "Don't test him. He has a track record."

Harry meets her gaze from across the room.

 

\--»»

 

It's Friday and Yvonne is still relentless in arguing with him, following him around and occasionally flicking his ear. They've been hissing at each other since Eggsy officially rejected Alicia Longman, and Jamal only rolls his eyes as Ryan quips, "Having an argy-bargy with the missus, eh?"

Eggsy tries not to feel too angry about the whole thing, especially since he notices her turning to raise a thumbs-up and a smile at Alicia Longman every time.

Still, it's fucking annoying.

Escaping the dining hall with Ryan and Jamal, Yvonne surely not far on their tail, a surprise waits for Eggsy as he steps out to the hall.

"Har--" _Harry_ , he wants to say. _Harry_ , he wants to feel the name stretch his jaw wide open, feel the consonants roll over his tongue, curling and possessive so everyone will _know_.

"Hart," He says instead.

Their eyes meet, and the exhilaration makes him giddy as if he could spontaneously burst on the spot. Eggsy clenches his teeth, tamping it down, and it helps with the appearance of being a cocky student with a hint of resentment. It's something the few staffers around Harry clearly buy, going from the slight shock and offence on their faces.

"Mr. Unwin, where have your manners gone? It's only been a few weeks since I've left." There's a glint in Harry's eyes and Eggsy eats that shit up.

"What, you gonna send me to detention, _sir_?"

"Pity, I'm only visiting."

Eggsy doesn't have to keep holding back the grin because it dies on its own the moment he finally notices the [sling](http://i.imgur.com/23UCXdv.png) on Harry's right arm. It's simple, practically a piece of strap with buckles, encircling his wrist to hold his arm up close against his torso. The sling is black, very subtle with his suit, which is why it would take a while for anyone to catch it in the first place.

And he knows it when Harry's noticed him noticing, because there's that distinct slight head tilt that he does--and other people probably wouldn't even really take note of it, but it's something Eggsy's always thought to mean that Harry expects him to behave. So of course, he only raises an eyebrow and lets the issue go.

For now.

"Oh, Mr. Hart!" Yvonne crows from nowhere, and Eggsy just feels that change wash over him again, straightening his spine and filling him with a malignant calm as she goes on, somehow managing to sound professional about it all. "Finally! You've come to visit. Took your time, did you?"

Eggsy's other eyebrow follows suit, turning back to Harry.

_Finally?_

Harry wisely averts his gaze and politely nods at her in greeting. Eggsy interrupts whatever he has to say. "Relax, _Miss Jansen_ ," Eggsy chides, hoping the mocking aspect of it doesn't go over her fucking head. "Don't get too excited, he's not exactly the Duke of Cambridge, is he?"

These are the words he parts with, looking Harry up and down with snobbish disdain as he passes him by. He nearly forgets Ryan and Jamal, "C'mon lads."

When they're safely far away Eggsy pulls out his mobile.

"Damn, you're really out for that bloke aren't you, Gaz?" Ryan remarks.

 _Oh, bruv, you have no fucking idea_ , he doesn't say as he pulls up Hazly Wobbles on his inbox.

"You sure you don't fancy Jansen after all, Eggsy? You seemed a tad bit jealous back there," Jamal asks carefully.

Ryan snorts. "Yeah, a _tad_."

Eggsy stops in his tracks, flipping his phone shut. "I need to pop into the loo, me."

They leave him be and he ends up in a stall, furiously texting with no real thought.

 

 _‘Just you wait until we get home, is2g._ ’

 

He's about to leave when his mobile buzzes.

 

**06\. 07. 2007 - Hazly Wobbles:**

_Indoor athletics room, 3rd floor. Now._

 

There's about fifteen minutes until class starts and Eggsy tries not to think too much as he makes his way to the third floor. Tries not to dwell on the possibility that maybe Harry's here because Yvonne Jansen asked him to be.

The indoor athletics room on the third floor used to be full of nets, set up for indoor cricket. Now though, dim as it is with only half of the room lights turned on, it's mostly full of blue floor mats that remind him of his time in gymnastics. He tests it out, prodding at the edges with the tip of his shoe. Definitely not as soft as gymnastic mats.

"Eggsy."

He almost startles. Almost.

Eggsy turns with an eyebrow raised, scrutinising Harry from head to toe. "One, what's with the arm? Second, why are you in Holland Park again?"

"Work-related accident," He brushes it off, as if Eggsy could ever let that go, "As for the second one--"

"Work-related acci--what, I'm sorry, did you fall onto an ancient sewing machine and crack your arm?" He blurts, nearly hysterical.

"Don't be ridiculous, it's a stab wound," Harry deadpans.

Eggsy gapes, until it dawns on him that stab wounds wouldn't need slings. Right? He squints suspiciously at him. "And for the second one? Holland Park?"

"As I was saying, before I was rudely interrupted, I'm merely aiding in introductions and the like."

"Introductions for what?"

"The school has always been looking to expand its competitive sports section."

"Yeah. And..?"

"They've finally decided and chosen the fencing proposal to be approved for the next school year. I have a highly skilled acquaintance who professionally coaches. Made sense to break the ice, as it were."

Eggsy stares at him, not quite sure whether or not he's taking the piss.

"...Fencing."

Harry gives him that chiding, I'm-going-to-drop-some-valuable-life-lesson look.

"Fencing is an essential part of a gentleman's education, Eggsy."

"Ah," Eggsy nods, enlightened, and drawls, "Yeah, that's how you stab people with your brolly, innit?" He finishes with a smile, overly sweet.

"Such cheek and it's barely past noon." There's something there that sounds like awe.

Eggsy winks. "Prime time to quit your miserable job and punish me full-time in detention, Mr. Hart."

"My job isn't miserable," Harry insists, automatic. As he goes on the defence, it's clear to Eggsy that the ill-advised, not to mention _uncontrollable_ flirting obviously went over his fucking head, and Eggsy can't even feel the shame because of the sheer disbelief.

Eggsy can only stare before pointedly narrowing his eyes at the sling on Harry's right arm, taking a step closer. "You," He starts off, slow, "You barely get home. When you do, you're exhausted..." Eggsy looks up at him, eyes roving over Harry's face. "...The way you are right now. And you've just come back with a 'work-related' injury. What kind of work-related injury could a posh tailor get?"

"Posh, _international_ tailor," Harry corrects, staring down at him.

"What work-related injury could a posh, _international_ tailor possibly get?" Eggsy challenges, taking another step closer. He's on to something. He knows it, he knows--

"The possibilities are endless," Harry murmurs.

They stare at each other like that, and it works despite the inches of height difference between them; Eggsy imploring, and Harry with his expression mostly impassive. And the feeling--the feeling's always been there, Eggsy realises. But it's the first time that the thoughts are loud enough that Eggsy can't ignore them anymore, despite how involuntary they are to begin with. Gazing at Harry's near-stoic face, Eggsy thinks back to the strings of words in his head, consciously repeating them this time around.

 _Yeah,_ Eggsy thinks, _I'm going to ruin you._

And truth be told, it doesn't feel bad as he thought it would at all.

It's quite freeing.

Even as Eggsy sits in class, there's a steady low heat simmering right underneath his skin. His surroundings are muted and out of focus, barely holding his attention.

And don't get him wrong, he _does_ try.

_The possibilities are endless._

Yeah. Yeah, they are.

Somewhere in this building, Harry's walking around, talking, negotiating, doing whatever. And Eggsy likes to think he can sense where he is at any given moment. Which is creepy, he knows, but there's probably some scientific psychological explanation for it. Quinlan would probably diagnose him as delusional.

And that's fine.

He's seen the students flock to Harry, surprised and happy to see him again. Not only students, mind you. Staffers, too.

But exhilaration wins over the bitterness.

Because they haven't seen Harry for _ages_. But Harry-- _Harry comes home to Eggsy_.

He _has_ been coming home to him, and he _will_ continue to come home to him; Today, tomorrow, as often as Eggsy can manage.

So yeah, Eggsy's on top of the game. But that doesn't mean he'll just sit back quietly while Yvonne has fantasies of her own, getting ready to turn it into reality.

Eggsy shifts in his seat, propping both elbows on the desk to clasp his hands together in concentration. He'll take it slow, Eggsy decides. He has to figure out some things first. Like how Harry feels about him generally. Figure out why he's doing all this, figure out whether or not the Theory actually does hold up.

He has to find out what Harry likes, what his type is or if he even likes blokes. Eggsy can't just assume just because he looks like a repressed wanker. And--ah, right. Shit. He has to clear that wife thing out of the way.

Frowning, Eggsy absently moves his hands, letting the fingers splay out to massage his own neck. 'Cos this shit is stressing him out.

What if he _is_ married though? What will Eggsy do? Eggsy doesn't think he can possibly--

Eggsy almost flinches, and he glances down at the tiny crumpled paper on his desk. Unfolding it, the message reads: ' _Stop trying to be seductive right now. You, your hands, and your ridiculous jawline. Mr. Hart is in the building. Stop making this difficult for me._ '

With raised eyebrows, he looks back to the direction that the paper came from and--Yvonne rolls her eyes, sticking her tongue out.

Eggsy bares his teeth and gives her the two-fingered salute before going back to his original position on his desk. 'Cos fuck that. If him being seductive will veer her off Harry, he'll fucking do it.

He has to take her out.

There's a knock on the classroom door and Eggsy feels himself perk up before it opens to two faculty members and--

Half of the class cheer as Harry enters with a bloke following close behind.

Eggsy tries to contain himself, torn between bursting into laughter at his popularity or puffing his chest up in haughtiness and pride, because these people have no chill whatsoever.

_\---And he comes home to me._

Pursing his lips, Eggsy tries to calm down and presses his fingers against his neck, kneading along his jawline.

There are people in the room who probably haven't even heard of Harry at all going from the confusion on their faces, but they end up hooting and whistling along just for kicks. Miss Lewis tries to get the class to settle down while the faculty staff actually look amused at the whole display, if not a bit overwhelmed just like Harry.

Their eyes briefly meet and Eggsy can't help the smirk on his face. If they weren't in public, he's pretty sure he'd have received a long-suffering eyeroll. As it is, Harry just turns to a distressed Miss Lewis, murmuring something and getting a nod back before he goes on to address the rest of the room.

"Students, please. Settle down." He sends them a chiding look. "It's only been a few weeks."

"Oh please, Mr. Hart, more like two months!" Yvonne calls out from somewhere behind Eggsy and--Eggsy bites his tongue.

 _Been counting has she? Well, she should invest in a fucking calendar 'cos she's fucking_ wrong _. It's been seven weeks and that ain't exactly two months, now is it?_

"There's an announcement regarding an exciting programme for the next school year," Harry starts, "And it's definitely something to consider adding to your schedule. I'm going to let the Head of Physical Education, Mr. Mitchell, take over..."

Harry steps back and stands beside the bloke who's probably gonna be the fencing coach. And really, everything else just gets drowned out again and he tries not to gawk at Harry like most of the students are. 'Cos that's just beneath him, isn't it?

Or so he tells himself.

But just because he's not looking doesn't mean he can't _feel_ him.

And that's when the _what if_ scenarios start coming at Eggsy--Yvonne doesn't even have to start in them anymore to lull him into a false sense of security to begin with. Eggsy's way past that now.

It's all Eggsy from the beginning.

And look, he can't really help it, can he?

It's not really his fault, it's probably all the porn he's watched on his Macbook in the last few days. He called it research and refused to touch himself at all whatsoever so, _yeah_.

It's involuntary how he remembers the sensation of Harry's breath against his hair, and Eggsy thinks he can almost feel it right then and there, leaving him with that heady sensation.

And fuck, would Harry wind his fingers through Eggsy's short hair and _pull_? Or would that be ungentlemanly?

What if Eggsy just placed Harry's hand there, silently begging?

'Cos Harry would get it eventually won't he?

He always seems to know what Eggsy wants or needs before Eggsy even does. _Always_.

Eggsy realises his breaths are turning short and shallow, and he can only close his eyes because--He can't stop. _He can't_.

What if, instead of Yvonne, it was Eggsy spread out on Harry's desk in that dim empty room? What if it was Eggsy who had Harry between his thighs? Would Harry want him to be polite? What if Eggsy was being cheeky? Would he be punished? Would Harry bite him on the neck in retaliation until Eggsy shudders and gives in to calling him 'Sir'? Would Harry be _ruined_ then? Calm facade stripped away, replaced by desperation as they breathe against each other?

Eggsy lets out a quiet hiss, his fingers on his neck pressing harder.

 _What if, what if_ \---

An idea strikes him then, so terrifying and exhilarating at the same time.

 _What if the room_ wasn't _empty?_

What if it's the same thing, here, right now? With everyone watching as Harry and Eggsy go at it on the desk?

Because that way, they'll know, won't they? They'll know that Harry belongs to Eggsy and Eggsy belongs to Harry.

 _Yvonne_ will know. Yvonne will _see_. Yvonne will fucking hear it _all_.

And even better, what if they play her stupid mixtape in the background while they fuck each other into completion?

 _Yeah yeah yeah_.

The fingernails digging into his skin adds to the dizzying sensation. Throat dry, Eggsy shifts in his seat, mouth parting as he opens his eyes and wets his lips with a sweep of his tongue. His vision is slightly blurred as he tries to take in air, so it takes him a while to realise that he's looking at Harry.

Harry who's steadily watching him _right back_ and--shit.

 _Shit shit shit_.

Eggsy abruptly stands up from his seat, managing to grab his stuff, rushing out the door. It happens so fast no one even gets to question it. It shouldn't get him in too much trouble considering the bell chimes as he makes his way down the hall.

He's never been more thankful for the loose fit of his uniform trousers or the length of his blazer.

No one's in the restroom yet when Eggsy gets in and turns on the sink, splashing water on his face.

The rush and the pounding of his heart blocks out any noise.

He feels as if he could fucking come in his pants. And there would be no helping it, _fuck_.

 _Harry, Harry, Harry_ , He can't help but think, hands gripping the edges of the sink.

Eggsy's never felt like such a fucking teenager. Only Harry fucking Hart could reduce him to this.

All Eggsy would have to do is grip himself through his trousers and it would be so, _so_ fucking easy.

He's that fucking close, he's sure of it. He pries his left hand off the sink, thinking yeah. _Yeah_ , why not.

 _Harry, Harry, Har_ \--

"Eggsy?"

" _F--_ " Eggsy bites his lip, slamming his hand back on the sink so fast it _hurts_.

"Eggsy?" Harry repeats, sounding even more worried.

"I'm fine," He insists, trying to sound annoyed as he washes his hands and splashes water on his face again.

"Are you sure?" The footsteps come closer-- _christ_ \--"You didn't look well in class."

"Trust me, guv," Eggsy huffs as he feels Harry hover behind him. "I'm dandy."

He takes a quick glance at the mirror. Christ, Harry looks so concerned when Eggsy was just about to wank off to him, fuck. Eggsy is incensed with furious shame.

"Oi," Eggsy snaps, flicking his hands before wiping it on his blazer. "I'm serious. Leave before people see you in here--" He turns towards him, but Harry stops anything he might have to say with a few well-placed fingers under Eggsy's jaw, tilting his head up.

"Door is locked," Harry informs him absently.

Eggsy forgets how to breathe. Harry's eyes rove over his face and he tries so hard not to give it away, tries not to flush under the scrutiny.

"Your lip is bleeding," Harry thumbs at the corner of Eggsy's mouth, close to where the stinging is. Eggsy hopes the gritting of his teeth isn't too noticeable.

Harry continues on, murmuring, "My other hand is presently indisposed. Reach for my handkerchief in my inner coat pocket. Wipe your face with it."

Eggsy tries to keep his breathing steady while the same hand he was about to wank himself off with slips into Harry's suit jacket, briefly feeling the heat of him through his shirt. Harry's fingers leave him and Eggsy tries not to show his disappointment as he goes on to step back.

"You," Eggsy starts, avoiding his gaze and patting his face with the handkerchief. "You go out first. I'll head out to class in a mo'."

_Well. That escalated quickly._

 

\--

 

Harry regroups with the staff and the discussion begins as they walk to the next classroom.

"I'm sorry for that Unwin kid," Mr. Mitchell starts, apologetic. "He usually isn't like that."

Tilting his head, Harry arches a mild eyebrow. "He isn't. I'm sure it's nothing."

"Nah, he's going through some things, that one."

"Oh?"

Mitchell slows down in his walk and Harry humours him, falling behind from the others as well.

"I saw him and that Jansen girl, you know," Mitchell discloses, voice low. "Under a tree. She was on his lap and I caught them before it escalated too much."

He continues, unaware of the sudden blankness on Harry's face and the stilted way he holds himself as he walks on.

"They've been seen hanging out lately. It's only the past few days that it seemed like they're having a tiff. But you know how it is, eh? Teenagers and their young love."

 

\--»

 

The rest of the school day passes in a daze and Eggsy's a bit slow to pack up his things and walk out. He meanders around, watching the crowd thin as the minutes go by, and decides that yeah, he's gonna need a bit of time and space. Because he almost wanked off in school like a typical horny teenager and he needs to re-evaluate life.

And what his next step should be.

Seeing Yvonne bound up to Harry as he finishes up talking with faculty in the hall almost makes Eggsy change his mind.

But all he does is purse his lips and pass by. He's probably gonna have to call Quinlan ASAP about this whole thing 'cos it's not like he can talk to Roxy about this can he? Plus--

"Mr. Unwin."

Bewildered, he turns his head back to Harry who's catching up with him in long strides and _damn, those fucking legs could go on for miles_ \--

"Eggsy," Harry murmurs, too low for anyone to hear. But it doesn't stop Eggsy's eyes from going wide and looking around in defence. He catches Yvonne glaring at him suspiciously, all sulky with her arms crossed. Eggsy manages to keep his bewildered front instead of grinning like a homewrecker.

He raises his eyebrows at Harry. "Yes, Mr. Hart?"

"You're going home, yes?"

"Uhh--" Eggsy slows to a stop. Trying to find an excuse when he's stuck staring at Harry who's staring right back at him is really difficult. And he's weak, so he gives in, starting in his walk again. "Yeah, but I'll wait until the rain's died down a bit to make my way to the tube."

"It doesn't matter whether the rain's died down, it's unpredictable when it'll start back up again." Harry's brows furrow. "Also, where's your umbrella?"

Eggsy gives him a flat look, covering up the shame he gets from remembering that he broke his own umbrella a few weeks ago, having tried to recreate Harry's fighting moves in the privacy of his own room. "Umbrella's aren't cool, Haz," He mutters instead as they walk down the stairs. "Plus, it takes me ten minutes to get to the tube, tops, and I can make a run for it."

"Why would you need to take the tube?"

The realisation hits him then, and Eggsy almost trips down the fucking steps, except Harry grips his blazer, quick as fire even with his right arm on a sling.

"Oi," Eggsy whispers furiously, trying to shake him off and curb the mad urge to grin despite the adrenalin rush he's feeling. "I can't exactly be seen going home with you, can I?"

"Right, of course." Harry steps to the side, the space between them regrettably too noticeable to Eggsy as they continue their walk. "Regardless, take a cab."

Eggsy refrains from throwing his hands up in the air and giving him an educational tirade about the average lives of the common people. They can't just take the cab everywhere they go for hell's sake. "Guv--"

"Check your pocket," He utters, low, before moving on, passing him by, quick and graceful. Eggsy can only gawk as he walks down the stairs and onto the ground floor. Because okay, it might be weird noticing it in the first place, but there's a certain way that Harry [walks](http://0-q-0.tumblr.com/post/160793499924) on stairs, alright? And just being aware of that train of thought really makes him feel like a dumb teenager, arse over tits for--

Eggsy huffs, rolling his eyes as he feels the single bill in his pocket. Like, Eggsy doesn't have money to bet in the first place, but if he did, he'd bet a ridiculous sum that it's fifty quid in his pocket, because that's seems to be a reoccurring theme with Harry.

Honestly, he'd be offended, but he's too impressed at how it got in his pocket in the first place without him noticing. Haz has got some sneaky skills.

Eggsy's near the building exit, falling behind the few students left getting their umbrellas when Yvonne bumps him on the shoulder, walking past him with an air of superiority and--Eggsy's eyebrows climb up so fucking high as he watches her try catch up to Harry outside in the light rain and _no_.

No, no, no.

_That ain't on._

His mind supplies him with all the excuses right then, flooding his thoughts. Eggsy tries to keep calm as he makes his way towards the gate where Harry's already been stopped by Yvonne. There's a ridiculous stab of resentment at how picturesque they look under the light rain, her bright orange umbrella almost touching Harry's black. It's the type of shit that would make Roxy's lip wobble during a film marathon before sniffling and rolling her eyes, pretending it doesn't affect her.

Yvonne brandishes some classy-looking, leather braid [bracelet](http://i.imgur.com/T3MGmc9.jpg). And Eggsy thinks that she can't possibly be serious. He's just in awe of her fucking nerve.

Other people wouldn't notice, but Eggsy's never seen Harry so close to awkward when she offers it to him, smiling and oozing with charm. Eggsy's getting nearer now that he hears her, "...We were making some for the Business-Crafts collaboration project, and since you might not be able to make it to prom, I thought, hmm, why not?"

"Miss Jansen--"

"Come, let me put it on," She beckons. And what the fuck? Can't she see that his right arm is on a fucking sling and his left hand is holding the brolly? Eggsy grips the shoulder strap on his rucksack. _I won't get in the way, I won't get in the way, I have to think this through, I need the space, I need the time, I have self-control, I--_

Harry pointedly looks down at his injured arm.

She rolls her eyes and huffs, being cute and shit and-- _fucking unbelievable_. "The other one, Mr. Hart."

"I wear a watch on this side," Harry says, effortless. But Eggsy already knows that something's _wrong_. It's something in his tone, it's in the way his left hand twitches on his hold of the umbrella, clenching.

Yvonne laughs, melodic. "Oh come on, so what?" She coaxes, reaching for it.

"Hart!" Eggsy barks. There's relief on Harry's face before a flash of something that looks like guilt takes over. Yvonne shoots him a glare, having been interrupted.

"Gary, sod off--"

"No, _you_ sod off." He asserts, shutting her down quick and merciless, before turning to Harry, thoughtless, "You--"

Eggsy deliberately misses the slinged arm and only actually _pushes_ Harry after his palm has already settled over the side of his ribcage.

Harry stumbles backwards--way harder than Eggsy could have possibly caused--back hitting the metal gate, making it slightly rattle. Eggsy initially feels bad, but he's gotta keep up the act and so he threatens him, "Go home. Now."

Yvonne fumes, "Gary!"

"No, it's quite alright," Harry insists, avoiding Eggsy's gaze, every inch of him composed. "Indeed, I must go home now."

 

»»

 

In the cab, Eggsy's restless, trying not to worry too much. Because surely Harry knows it was just for show? Surely?

When Eggsy finally gets in, Harry's staring into nothing, sitting on Eggsy's usual end of the sofa with a drink in hand.

"Harry--Harry, you know I didn't mean that yeah?" Eggsy desperately tries to explain, walking further into the living room.

Tilting his head, Harry just blinks at him as if he's surprised he's even there in the first place.

"Harry, I was just trying to keep our cover," Eggsy blurts, coming closer. "Oh my god, are you okay? Did I hurt you? I didn't push you _that_ hard--Jesus." He kneels, unthinking, hands hovering. Eggsy doesn't know what to do, he feels like shit. This can't be the thing that has them falling out.

_Don't hate me, not now, don't hate me..._

"Eggsy..."

"Yeah?" He immediately answers, attentive.

"Take your coat off."

Eggsy looks down at himself and realises he didn't even hang his raincoat. Part of it is on the floor and the rug, getting it wet. Shit. Eggsy immediately takes it off.

"Get off your knees."

Eggsy freezes, clutching his coat.

Eggsy didn't even fucking realise--shit. He steals a glance. Harry is waiting, expectant. Eggsy starts to rise, looking down, averting his gaze. Which is why he's caught off-guard when there's Harry's hand, suddenly against his jaw, gentle but firm.

It lights him on _fire_.

"Your lip's much better," Harry murmurs. "Take a shower. I don't want you getting ill."

Eggsy can only nod, swallowing.

"Eggsy."

"Yeah?"

"Breathe," orders Harry, soft. "It's fine. I understand."

Eggsy runs upstairs to get a change of clothes and calms himself down. He's managed it by the time he's downstairs and in the bathroom, throwing his blazer in the wash. He's loosening his tie when he realises something. After looking through the cupboards under the sink, Eggsy opens the door, calling out, "Harry, do we have shower stuff or something? I ran out of soap. I forgot."

There's no answer, and Harry probably went upstairs to change or something and Eggsy really doesn't wanna bother him. He's fucked up way too many times today.

Eggsy pads to the kitchen to search the pantry just in case. Harry keeps the cleaning chemicals in here on the bottom shelves, so it's not really that far-fetched.

Too focused in looking for one damned soap, he almost startles when he finally senses Harry somewhere behind him. "Jesus fuck, Harry--"

He turns, losing his words when he sees Harry in a red robe, holding out a small box. "Soap."

Eggsy shuts his mouth before clearing his throat and taking it. "Sorry, thanks. I err--"

He gestures somewhere to the bathroom's direction, fleeing.

Eggsy continues with putting everything he's wearing in the wash and opens the box. He gets the impression it's fancy for some reason, which is just _so Harry_ to give his guests posh arse soap.

He occasionally peeks past the curtains at Mr. Pickle for strength when he takes his shower, 'cos Eggsy refuses to wank off despite the excessive revelations of the day and that damned red robe. It's a successful anti-boner strategy.

It's only when Eggsy's finished toweling himself that he realises _he smells like Harry_.

And that--

He glares down at his cock.

"No."

Eggsy puts some clothes on and before he leaves the bathroom, he's struck by his reflection. He's wearing a crisp white button-down and black sweatpants because his school trousers are still in the wash. And really, it strikes him then. He's wearing the shirt Harry put in his wardrobe. A wardrobe that Harry said was his, in a room with things that Harry also said was his.

Breathing in, he can smell Harry on him too.

And he remembers when he was younger, wondering what cologne Harry wore, growing up and getting a mysterious post containing cologne bottles that suspiciously smelled too close to _nostalgia_ for two consecutive birthdays.

Even then it wasn't enough. It smelled like Harry, yes, but there were a few parts just _missing_. And now Eggsy's gained another insight as to what those parts were.

The breath he takes is shaky.

His reflection shows him that he's a bit red, but that can easily be blamed on the warm shower he just took.

God, he's such a fucking mess.

Maybe that's why he ends up outside Harry's bedroom door.

His courage falls short, so his hand just hovers for a long moment in front of him, unable to knock, before he gently lets it touch against the wood, fingers splayed out.

Christ, what the fuck is he doing?

Eggsy almost flinches when the door opens.

"Yes?" Harry asks, obviously having just taken a shower himself going from the state of his hair.

_Shit shit shit._

"I--uhh er--Sorry, were you asleep?" He blurts out, ignoring his own jitters.

There's a mild eyebrow raise. "No, I was merely getting dressed."

Eggsy can't speak.

"Was there something you needed?" murmurs Harry, opening the door a bit wider.

Eggsy tries to tamp down the tremors.

"...Will you go to bed--" _~~with me~~_ "--?" Eggsy swallows.

"That depends. You have plans, I take it?"

"Yeah--Yeah, I have plans."

"...If you're going to keep biting your lip like that, it's going to bleed again," says Harry quietly.

Eggsy huffs halfway through a failed attempt at laughter and just looks down, not knowing what to do.

There's only silence, and suddenly there's a pinch on his cheek. Disbelieving, he slowly looks up at Harry.

Harry frowns, letting go and pinching Eggsy's cheek again. "Odd," He says, slowly moving his pinch in different directions. "For some reason I thought this was going to induce genuine laughter."

He actually starts to look embarrassed in his own way, blinking fast with brows furrowed--and who knew that Harry Hart was ever capable of _embarrassment_?

And Eggsy--Eggsy honestly laughs. It escapes him from nowhere. He laughs and laughs, leaning against the doorway to Harry's bedroom for support, because this is actually a thing and--He sighs, trying to catch his breath. He's shaking his head, still smiling until his gaze stays too long on Harry's right arm, held close to his torso.

The decision has been made when he looks up at Harry.

"You know, I was gonna leave you alone," Eggsy admits quietly.

He gets a curious head-tilt in return, and Eggsy lets all the excuses leave his mouth, hoping he doesn't fall short in sounding convincing. "--But then you went and got yourself injured, honestly," He huffs. "How can you go to the shops like that? D'you know the grocery list is almost half a page long?"

"I appreciate the sentiment, but trust me when I say I can handle it." Harry avoids his gaze. "I'll get it done by tomorrow. It's a Friday, Eggsy, you can spend time with your friends and...other people."

"No, I--" Eggsy wills away the desperation and tries to _think_.

The only thing that comes up to him then is the Theory.

"I want--" He steels himself for rejection. "I ran out of juice-boxes."

Harry stares at him.

"I want them now," Eggsy claims.

Harry keeps staring, eyebrows steadily making their way up.

Eggsy backtracks, "I mean, not now _now_ , obviously. But like, today, for dinner maybe?"

Harry opens his mouth, but he doesn't seem to be able to say anything.

Eggsy continues in his tirade. "...Obviously there's water but I guess I'm just thirsty for something else, so..." He trails off, barely able to hold himself back from cringing. He sounds like such a fucking brat. Eggsy could slap himself.

"You..." Harry looks at him in awe and consternation before shaking his head. "What's the magic word?"

"...Please?" Eggsy ventures, unsure of what's happening right now.

"Would after work be amenable for you?"

Now, it's Eggsy's turn to stare. Harry hasn't been fucking home for three days and he came back with an injury for fuck's sake and Eggsy practically assaulted him despite all that and--

"Yes," He affirms, part selfish and part challenging, because Harry needs sleep in his own bed in his own damn house, he can't possibly just skip that shit just because Eggsy wants something pronto.

Right?

Harry nods. "I'll be ready when you get off."

Eggsy feels himself nodding back, internally screaming at the surreal reality he's living. "M'kay. Cool."

He steps back, mechanical, and starts to make his way to the stairs.

When Eggsy hears his name, he turns back, thinking _this is it, he's got his sanity back_.

"Yeah?"

Eggsy waits, getting ready for the rejection. Harry seems to have trouble getting the words out. "...Why are you here?"

"What."

What is this? Amnesia? Has Harry's shitty job finally done him in?

"I asked you at school, if you were going home," Harry articulates.

Eggsy humours him. "....Yeah? Uh-huh."

"...you said yes."

Eggsy still waits, not seeing why--

 _Oh_.

 ** _Shit_**.

The beeping chime from the washing machine interrupts Eggsy's attempt at a bullshit answer.

"Laundry," He blurts, starting to make his escape, walking backwards. "Gotta go, me. Get some sleep, Haz."

 

»»

 

"You got a date or what?" Clara asks him, teasing.

Eggsy tears his eyes away from the clock. "Huh?"

Clara rolls her eyes and hands him more books to put on the shelves. "You know, if you want, I can close up on my own. I've done it before. Go on with your date."

"No, don't be ridiculous," Eggsy insists, muttering on, "I'm a gentleman. I wouldn't leave you hanging, Clar. What if you get robbed the last minute or something?"

In all honesty, he's stalling and he knows it. He hopes that Harry forgot and is sleeping comfortably at home. That way Eggsy wouldn't have to feel guilty about everything. Because Harry deserves to be at home with his cardigans and his dead stuffed dog.

Just because he's guilty though doesn't mean the excitement and the hope isn't there when he quietly breaks in.

And he supposes it's good that he was quiet in the first place, because Harry's in his suit, sling on his right arm and all, _asleep_ on Eggsy's side of the sofa and--

Eggsy continues on his way, lightly going up the stairs. The rain outside has grown stronger, and that helps with masking out any noise he's made. He grabs the blanket underneath his duvet from the bed and absently picks up a book as he leaves, walking back down with the kind of stealth reserved for robbing someone's house.

From the hallway, he can see Harry's side profile as he sleeps on, sitting perfectly upright on the sofa. There's two sofas, yes, but there's a silent agreement that no matter what, Eggsy's side is to the left of any of those sofas, and Harry's on the other end. But considering Harry's right arm is injured, that's probably why he's there in the first place. It's where he can easily reach the side-table if he ever needs something. Like the barely finished glass of whisky that Eggsy places further out of reach.

There's a small space between Harry and the armrest, and Eggsy takes his chance to gently lay the blanket on him. Harry starts to move and Eggsy thinks, _no_ , a bit desperate, giving in to sit, knees bending ever so slowly, making little movement as possible when he finally takes his place on the space left. He's practically half-sitting on the armrest, sideways, staring at him.

Eggsy waits, heart pounding. But Harry only shifts slightly towards him, and breathes deeply again.

It's been a long, long day.

And Eggsy thinks, as he lays the side of his head against the sofa, barely two feet away from Harry's face, there's a sense of righteous irony that at the end of it, he gives in to admitting that maybe-- _just maybe_ , he's a little in love with Harry Hart.

 

\--»

 

Harry shifts awake, getting his bearings slower than he should. However, he's at home and he doesn't need to open his eyes to know that because he feels safe, therefore there should be nothing to worry about. Except--

He grunts against the meat of Eggsy's thigh.

"Shh, go back to bed Haz," Eggsy murmurs, fingers absently carding into Harry's hair and--Harry huffs, feeling oddly warm.

He merely stays there for a few moments, complacent. Until the realisation dawns on him that this is _reality_.

Harry stills. Of course it's reality, what else could it possibly be? That implies that he---"Eggsy, what are you doing?" He slowly turns his head towards him, looking up, and he ignores the way the grip on his hair tightens a fraction.

"I'm reading, Haz, what does it look like?"

"' _How to Be a Gentleman'_?" Harry questions, dubious.

"Maybe I'm trying to impress someone."

Harry begrudgingly thinks of Yvonne Jansen and his right arm twitches, reminding him with vexatious pain that he just got stabbed no less than forty-eight hours ago. "What time is it? Why didn't you wake me?" He asks instead, trying to get up, but Eggsy's hand on his hair remains firm. "Eggsy."

"It's arse o'clock, go back to sleep," He insists, and Harry glances at his watch.

"Two in the morning, _Eggsy_. What--?"

Eggsy sighs, letting go of his hold on Harry's hair. "You were asleep, and it was tempting, so I took a nap."

 _And I ended up with my head on your lap, how?_ He refrains from asking, ignoring the fact that the other sofa is completely vacant. "We missed dinner. You didn't get your drink."

"It was raining anyway. No worries."

Harry gives him a flat look.

 

\--»

 

It's almost three in the morning and Eggsy's with Harry eight miles away in the Tesco Superstore that he stole a can of Pringles from when he was twelve, because it happens to be open twenty-four hours.

"You're fucking mad, guv," Eggsy mutters, trying not to acknowledge how he's gripping at Harry's right elbow. And failing. "This don't hurt does it?"

"No."

Eggsy decides to stay on Harry's right side, considering the arm's in a sling anyway; If Harry would ever need something, Eggsy will get it for him.

"You're the one with the juice-box craving."

Eggsy sniffs, taking a trolley--'cos he's a fucking gentleman like that. "I'm having war flashbacks, Haz."

Harry rolls his eyes, pulling out the shopping list from his pocket and handing it over.

"Ooo, you added more," Eggsy remarks, going over it and getting more excited. "Oh, is it 'cos of your arm? Does that mean you'll have the whole week off? Will you cook and stuff?" Eggsy frowns. "Can you cook with one arm?"

"You'd be surprised with the things I can do with one arm."

Eggsy squints at the paper, willing the dirty thoughts away. "What is this canned food shite? Are you telling me that with all your money, you're not buying stuff and making things from scratch?"

"It's regrettable to ruin your impression of me, but I'm terribly easy to please."

Eggsy can't hold back a hiss. He manages to make it sound as if he's just annoyed.

They make their way through the aisles and Eggsy puts some meat in the trolley as retribution, ignoring the shame at the shameless front he's putting on. He meets Harry's quizzical gaze with determination. "I want it."

"...As you wish. Just make sure to eat them in due time."

When they get to the juice-box section, Harry expertly grabs three packs at once and places them on the trolley. Eggsy gapes.

"What is it?" Harry asks. "Would you like any other flavours than Mango-Pineapple?"

"I err--" Eggsy just points at something, falling back on the Theory.

Harry grabs two sets of Blackcurrant juice-boxes. "Is this enough? What about the Strawberry-Raspberry?"

"Nah," Eggsy tries to keep his voice steady. "Raspberries aren't my thing."

They go on and ultimately end up bickering about the merits of Tesco-brands, because Eggsy's so fucking sure it's the same thing, just cheaper, but Harry insists otherwise, because 'it's more expensive for a reason, Eggsy,' and they also spend way too much time choosing between canned soups.

"Do you need more toiletries?"

"What?"

"Soap?" Harry questions, and Eggsy looks at 'soap' on the list and crosses it out far too many times than necessary.

"You already gave me one," He evades. "What's up with that by the way? Are all the soaps you give your guests just as posh?"

"I've told you, I don't have much guests," says Harry, scrutinising a cheap loofah. "How was it? I didn't think you'd find it satisfactory."

"Guv, trust me when I say it's more than satisfactory," He mutters. "Why would you think it wasn't?"

"It simply didn't seem like something that would complement you. It was from my own personal supply; I tend to stock up on certain things so I won't have to think about them for a while."

Eggsy can't help but be a little offended, and he tries to play it off, "Won't complement me, huh? Your bar of soap too good for me? That's fine, I go for body wash anyway."

"Nonsense. There's a certain blend that comes to mind I believe would suit you better," Harry murmurs absently, distracted by the ingredients list on a shampoo bottle.

Eggsy just stares for a few seconds before he blurts out, "What about shampoo? What shampoo do you use?"

Harry turns to him, frowning. "Why?"

"Nothing, nevermind," Eggsy says in a rush, pushing the trolley to escape to the next aisle.

Passing by the still-warm pizza slices on display at the To-Go Section, Eggsy gives Harry a challenging leer as he puts them in the trolley. Harry only raises his eyebrows.

Eggsy reminds him, "We haven't had dinner, you said it yourself."

"We're having breakfast in a few hours," Harry points out.

Eggsy winks, grinning. "Let's call it second breakfast."

It's almost four a.m. when they finally get to the cashier who's blinking herself awake, and they leave with four bags which Eggsy carries three of.

The air is cool and crisp, but Eggsy feels warm and accomplished as he goes on to load most of their groceries in the cab that's already waiting for them. And really, Eggsy just doesn't ask. Harry gives the cabbie directions through the partition and Eggsy rifles through a bag for a pizza slice, waving it at Harry who gives him an admonishing look.

"Oh come on," Eggsy goads. "I know you're weak for the greasy stuff."

"You have no evidence for such claims," Harry retorts, keeping his head up. "I prefer to keep my hands clean."

Eggsy's eyebrows rise because he just has a gut feeling that despite all appearances, that's such fucking _bullshit_. He offers the pizza again, holding it so that the tip is much closer to Harry's mouth. "For reals, go on. Have a bite."

"No," Harry shoots him a dignified glare.

"Your loss," Eggsy shrugs, taking a bite, exaggerating, " _Mmm_."

Accidentally catching the driver's gaze through the mirror, Eggsy immediately stops, feeling stupidly ashamed.

He decides to stay quiet the rest of the ride home.

 

\--

 

Eggsy's unusually subdued all of a sudden and Harry doesn't know why.

Pursing his lips, Harry tries to sneakily pull off a piece of the pizza in Eggsy's lax grip, and Eggsy guffaws, disbelieving, before he helplessly breaks out into a wide grin.

Greasy fingers are a small price to pay, Harry decides as he finally settles back in his seat.

Eggsy huffs, reaching for something in his trouser pocket. "Give me your hand."

Harry stares at his traitorous hand and watches as Eggsy wipes the tips of his fingers with a handkerchief. At that moment he has a resentful thought that Eggsy Unwin is too good for Yvonne Jansen. Which, of course, is none of his business altogether. But his excuse is that he's only looking out for the boy. He supposes that everyone's bound to make mistakes, especially at such a young age.

In actuality--no.

Yvonne Jansen is an ambitious, calculating, brilliant young lady. She could easily be Eggsy's match, Harry concedes with unease. They'd be a terrifying force to be reckoned with.

He feels himself frown, feels himself taking a long, uneven breath through his nose.

"There you go," Eggsy announces with a gentle upturn to the corner of his mouth.

And somehow Harry is simultaneously struck by contentment and an unbearable sadness at the sight. He hums, letting the heavy sensation settle. There's an inkling that it's a feeling he has to get used to, and he oddly resigns himself to it.

When they get home, Eggsy takes all of the bags out in one trip, setting them by the front door as he waits for Harry to get out of the cab. It's strangely endearing; Harry has his right arm in a sling, yes, but he can kill a number of men in a span of a few minutes even in his current predicament. He's had worse injuries in the field in even worse circumstances.

Once inside, they work side by side as they take the time to unload the groceries and put them in their proper place in the pantry and the fridge. They briefly bicker about where to put certain things, but that's easily resolved, and Harry excuses himself to change upstairs.

"M'kay, go on, I can handle things from here," Eggsy waves him off.

By the time Harry comes back down, the sky outside is starting to show signs of light. On his way to the kitchen, he stops at the sight of the dark wooden blinds in the dining room. Harry doesn't even remember the last time he opened it.

"Harry?" He vaguely hears Eggsy call out before his focus returns.

"Yes?"

Eggsy looks at him strangely. "Do you want me to open the blinds?"

How pitiful does this boy think Harry is that he doesn't think him capable of opening the blinds if he wanted to?

"Yes, please," Harry hears himself murmur. "All the way through."

The view is shit, because he lives in Central London. But there's a bit of sky, and Harry merely lets himself push some dining chairs to the side behind him and sit on the table to watch the sunrise.

Or at least, the effects of it.

He absently notices the lights start to turn off one by one and soon Eggsy is quietly sitting next to him.

After a few moments, there's a murmur. "You know, tables aren't for sitting--that's what the chairs are for."

A huff escapes Harry.

Eggsy starts again, hushed, after a few minutes of comfortable silence, "You know, you should wear them jumpers more often. Outside, I mean. Or whatever really. Have you ever worn anything other than those posh suits even when you go out for simple errands?"

 _Yes, actually_ , Harry doesn't say, automatically thinking of his undercover missions. But he doesn't want to think about anything remotely close to work at the moment, so he only hums. "I'll keep that in mind."

They stay like that for almost half an hour in the peaceful quiet.

And Harry thinks, maybe it wasn't so bad to be stabbed in the arm. Because he's home.

 

\--»»

 

Eggsy paces in his room, mobile against his ear, waiting for--

"Quinlan, holy shit, mate, you gotta fucking help me. I want him," He blurts the moment he hears the line pick up. "Don't make me desperate, bruv. I want him, and don't say 'I fucking told you so', 'cos I swear--"

" _...'Quinlan'...Is that your name?_ " Some gruff sounding voice intones, talking to someone in the background.

"Uhh," Eggsy pulls his mobile back, glancing at the screen to double check. Yep, that's Quinlan he's just dialed.

" _Fuck off,_ " He hears Quinlan finally hiss, voice coming closer, and there's something that sounds like a scuffle and there's a bit of... _noises_. Grunting and huffing and even... _growling_.

What the fuck?

Eggsy feels wrong-footed. "Am I...interrupting something?"

" _Give me a moment,_ " Quinlan calls out, sounding far way again, somehow managing to sound properly annoyed despite being out of breath.

And hell no. If there's some sexy times going on, Eggsy won't tolerate this shit. He's having a crisis here for fuck's sake.

"Quin--"

More grunting.

" _Don't mind--_ "

Eggsy's pretty sure something just broke into several pieces.

" _Goddammit, Bond._ "

"...Do you want me to call the cops or...?" Eggsy haltingly offers, unsure.

" _No--_ " There's a loud smack that makes Eggsy cringe. It's immediately followed by a heavy thunk.

There's a sigh of relief.

" _Sorry about that,_ " Quinlan tries to sound composed.

"Uhh..." Eggsy forgets why he called in the first place. "Should I even ask?"

" _What? No, no. Don't mind him,_ " He rambles onwards, sounding like he's talking to himself, " _Where did I put those darts? Darts, darts, darts. Merde._ "

Eggsy would be worried, except that Quinlan gets like this sometimes. And he's a bit odd, really, so..."Should I call later?"

" _No. Stay,_ " Quinlan orders, before backtracking, " _I mean, I can multi-task. Go on, what was it? Daddy issues?_ " 

Scowling, Eggsy retorts, "You know I can't believe that out of the two of us, it's me who's having this problem. What do I do, Quin? Christ."

" _You're barely sixteen._ "

"Shut up. I know." He sits on his bed, looking down in shame at the shitty carpet. "But--you can't tell me to back off, alright? You're the one who kept telling me--"

" _First of all, my intention was to enlighten you of your stupidity. Second, you're barely sixteen, and he's what--fifty? Forty?_ "

"Oi!" Eggsy can't help but be defensive, grumbling like a petulant child. "...He's fuckin' fit, him..."

" _Gross. I'm not telling you to back off. It's your life. I just want you to know you're walking on a very fine line. There are laws, and there are consequences._ "

There's a heaviness in the pit of Eggsy's stomach, because Quinlan's right. He doesn't wanna get Harry in trouble. That's the last thing he wants to do.

"It's not just...a sex thing, you know," Eggsy insists, trying to make him understand. "I'm not--This ain't some weird, 'I think I want him, so I'll take him' shit," He struggles to explain. "I mean yeah, he's fit, but I _just realised_ that---Well, okay, I noticed before 'cos I saw him with his suit jacket off and _them pecs_ , bruv--"

" _\--Gross--_ "

"--But still, it's different, you know? From now, I mean. It's like...I _know_ now. And I..." He huffs in frustration. Why is this so hard to explain? Goddamn. "It's not just some messed up, kinky shit. Not only. There's more to it than all that. I want--" He swallows.

_Everything. I want everything._

Eggsy's startled by a sudden sharp noise, not unlike a duct tape being ripped out. He squints in suspicion. "Are you having kinky sex with that bloke? Why are you having kinky sex with that bloke? What happened to your rampant asexuality? We had that talk."

" _I can't decide whether to be impressed that you remember that conversation at all or to laugh that you remembered it wrong._ " There's another loud rip and Eggsy belatedly pulls the phone away from his ear only to put it back to Quinlan still talking. " _One, I was only educating you. I never said--_ " another rip " _\--and two, no. I'm not having kinky sex with the intruder knocked out on my sofa. That would be non-consensual._ "

"Knocked out? Why is he--"

"-- _Whatever you choose, take note that_ _it's only a few months away until your birthday. Think very carefully about it. Pace yourself._ "

Eggsy sighs before something occurs to him, and he perks up, questioning, "Wait, why are we talking like this is a done deal? I don't even know if he can even think of me that way."

There's a loud aggravated groan. " _You know what, I can actually do this alone. Goodbye. Don't call me for another few hours._ "

Eggsy scowls, and resolves to find his Theory draft to update it.

 

»»

 

At work, he engages in conversation while basically doing a good job not letting on that he's daydreaming like a fucking loser despite his willpower. Max is talking about this shitty extended family reunion that he has to go to in a few weeks or some sort and Eggsy just nods and says the right words when really, he's thinking about new ways to test the Theory.

"Well, surely you'd know something about that wouldn't you?" Max urges.

"Huh?"

"Unpleasant family or even close family friends or something like that."

Eggsy squints. He could take the easy way out and lie, but he's been fading in and out of this conversation and he kinda feels guilty about it. Also, it hasn't rained all day, and it's actually pretty sunny out--which is rare--but Max hasn't been blasting the air-conditioner on high. That shit deserves some rewarding. So he decides to be honest. "No, not really?"

"But what about your dad? He's estranged isn't he?"

"...My dad? He's kinda six feet under."

"Oh, sorry. Step-dad then?" Max starts to guess, and Eggsy really doesn't know what the hell he's talking about.

"What?"

"Tall bloke in the suit? Uptight looking bastard who came to pick you up?"

Eggsy gasps when it dawns on him. "Holy shit, mate. Oh my god," He can't help but sputter, "He ain't--Christ, he ain't my step-dad, Max!"

Max immediately puts his hands out in surrender. "Damn, not yet huh? If it were _my_ mum, she'd have locked him down already and married him for the money."

What the fuck, how did he get this impression? Eggsy was pretty sure the sugar daddy thing was gonna be his problem, but it’s either Max is giving him an out or he's stupid as a bag of spanners, which is just unthinkable.

"You--" Eggsy stops his fuming, 'cos either way, what can he say? He can't get Harry in trouble.

Eggsy huffs, shoulders slumping, mind going a hundred miles an hour trying to make up an elaborate lie in a span of seconds. "Yeah," He nods, sounding a bit dejected, "I'm really hoping my mum gets over him."

Max gives him a sympathetic shoulder pat. "Sorry Gary, he came all the way here to pick you up, it must really be serious."

He shoots him a glare for show.

They start closing up and Eggsy's back to half-daydreaming again despite their ongoing conversation.

"Gary."

"Yeah?"

Focused in locking the door to the bookshop, Max still raises his eyebrows, obviously amused for some reason. "I asked if you wanted to grab a drink at the pub?"

It takes a while for it to register to Eggsy because surely he can't be _too_ far gone already that he's hallucinating Harry _right there_ in pressed dark slacks and a half-zip brown jumper over a dress shirt and a blue tie? 'Cos that's a very specific hallucination; He even has the sling on his right arm.

Even though he looks like a supply teacher, he still manages 'posh git' very well.

But, if anything, Eggsy's the real loser here because his pulse races just a tiny bit anyway.

"Gary?" Max tries again, and Eggsy finally turns back towards him.

"Sorry, what?"

Eggsy sees Max finish with the last lock, sees him look up and double-take at something past Eggsy's shoulder, sees his eyes going slightly wide.

"I think you'll find that Gary Unwin is underage."

Eggsy's spine straightens at Harry's unreadable tone. He barely stops himself from leaning back against him, remembering the shitty lie he's just told, and scowls up at him instead. "I might as well call you daddy while we're at it."

Harry shuts his mouth, staring back down at him.

Shit. _Shit_. He meant to say dad. _Dad_. Fuck.

The mortification makes him _flush_ and it probably adds to Max's initial impression in the first place, so Eggsy just tells Max, properly looking like an embarrassed teenager who's trying not to look embarrassed, "I'm sorry mate, that's a no obviously. He might grass me up, this one."

Max chuckles nervously, starting to walk backwards. "Aha, yeah. Maybe next time-- _or not_! Aha."

Eggsy watches him disappear, frowning, and gives in to leaning back against Harry's front, taking care to avoid putting weight on the right arm. He feels Harry huff near his ear, "If you really wanted to go I couldn't have possibly stopped you."

Raising his eyebrows, Eggsy gazes back up at him, noting Harry's pursed lips. "Who said I wanted to go?" Eggsy grins before fully turning to face him. "What are we up to this time?"

 

»»

 

Harry insists on taking him back to Selfridges for the suit fitting and Eggsy's excuse for going along with it is science.

Testing the Theory counts as science, don't it?

Somehow, Harry remembers the suit that Eggsy reluctantly decided on last-week. Eggsy doesn't know how much it costs, but surely Harry won't buy someone anything way too expensive in the first place, right? Maybe it's just a couple of hundred quid or something, an amount that Harry can easily spend without second thought.

But he just has to know, and Eggsy can't find the tag on the suit, so he asks Harry. Harry, who gives a flat look and says, "I'll tell you after."

"After what?"

They meet the in-store tailor assigned to them, Raj, who can't possibly be even more than twenty-seven, and Eggsy gets ushered into a small room with mirrors all over. He can't decide if it's a good thing that Harry follows them in or not as Raj professionally explains what he'll have to do to get the measurements.

"S'fine," He tells him, when really, all he's doing is helplessly thinking about Harry doing all these things to him, getting way close, touching him, maneuvering him in any way he wants to and kneeling for Eggsy.

Eggsy breathes through his nose, keeping his head high when he meets Harry's gaze through the mirror. "Aren't you a tailor? Couldn't you have done this for me?" He tries not to be accusing.

"I could have," Harry admits, taking a step closer and murmuring, "If it wasn't for my arm."

Eggsy pushes away the guilt and huffs, "I thought I was to be surprised about all the things you can do with one arm."

There's a sudden pinprick on his leg, and he can't even react before Raj is apologising profusely.

"S'fine," He assures him. But Raj keeps apologising, mostly to Harry and-- _O_ _i, I'm the one you pricked here_. Eggsy scowls at Harry until he drops that severe blank face he's doing--which must be terrifying for other people, Eggsy realises.

"It's fine, proceed," Harry relents.

Eggsy only stands there as the two of them talk shop, which really just confuses him some more. Harry's really convincing at being a tailor, but something just doesn't add up. Eggsy doesn't know what to think anymore. With Harry down one arm, he should have weeks off and that should give Eggsy enough time to avoid thinking about it and just enjoy.

"Translate tailor-speak to me," Eggsy says as they make their way to the formal shoes.

"There's not much to be done, and it should be ready by Saturday for your prom."

"Really? All that work?"

"It'll fit you well, but there'll be a tiny bit of leeway just in case you grow into it."

"Oi, I'm grown, me!" Eggsy protests.

"Of course you are--Now look at these. Which one do you like?"

Scrunching his nose at the formal shoes in display, he gives up. "As long as it's not the shiny ones. I don't really care. Just choose for me. You're an expert, I'm betting."

"Well, if you insist," Harry hums, reaching over to pick up a pair. "One thing you always need to remember Eggsy: _Oxfords, not Brogues._ "

Eggsy stops, feeling his smile fall short. He blinks at Harry, bizarrely off-kilter. "What?"

"Come, put this on," Harry beckons, and Eggsy decides to shake it off. It's something to think about later.

 

»»»

 

"Hey mum," Eggsy greets her, distracted, working on revising the Theory as he listens to Yvonne's playlist through his earphones.

Did the whole time at time at Tesco count as a pass? Eggsy kept putting stuff in the trolley just to see Harry's reaction. And basically 'cos he was being a little shit. Honestly, Eggsy only goes grocery shopping when his mum doesn't have the time, and even then he only sticks to the essentials.

So being with Harry was weird. Did he let him just get stuff because he could afford it and he didn't care how much he would spend? Was it pity? Or was it something else?

Eggsy frowns.

"Eggsy," She tries to get his attention not for the first time.

He pulls the earphones off. "Hmm?"

"You're still up."

Eggsy rolls his eyes. "I'm a teenager and it's a Saturday."

"...not anymore it ain't."

"...Huh?" Eggsy looks up to find her staring at him weird.

"It's almost two in the morning, Eggsy," She slowly explains, and he cranes his head around for a clock and huh--

"Well, whaddaya know?" He shrugs, gathering his pages into a pile, folding them and locking them in between the pages of his journal. "Goodnight mum." He kisses her cheek and makes his way to his room.

 

\--»

 

"There's something going on with my son," Michelle announces.

"Like what?" Harry humours her.

"I don't know. Something," She insists.

Harry attempts to smile, but he can't really hold it for long. "Maybe it's a girl."

Michelle perks up, shocked. "You think so?"

Frowning down at his tea, Harry pushes it away; he's lost his appetite. "He's a young lad. He's at that age, isn't he?"

He absently presses along his slinged arm, the grating pain a welcome distraction.

 

»»

 

There's a [record](https://drive.google.com/file/d/0B0cJIN3EC9N0VEZHMzBTNHZyZzA/view?usp=sharing) playing when Harry gets home, and his feet lead him to the source in the living room. He stands there for a moment, letting himself be immersed in the music. Harry's never been home enough often to spend much time listening to his collections; It's been a while since he's heard this song, and it's mesmerising enough to root him to the spot for who knows how long.

"Oi, Haz, where you been--" Eggsy peeks his head out from the dining room entryway and frowns at the sight of him. "You're wearing a suit. Nevermind, then. You can't cook me bacon wearing that."

Harry raises an eyebrow. "Do we even have any left after your legendary second breakfast the day previous?"

"Oh my god, you ate like half of it. Don't even start." He disappears, and Harry goes back to the foyer to hang his overcoat and his umbrella, calling out in question, "What are you doing here?"

"What?" Eggsy calls back as Harry starts to make his way to the dining room.

"It's your day off," He points out.

"How'd you know that?" Eggsy's asks from somewhere in the kitchen, and Harry approaches, going straight for the fridge, and taps the schedule sheet.

Eggsy turns from his busy rummaging through the pantry and stops. "Oh."

There's a momentary lapse of quiet where Harry simply stares at him, scrutinising his attire. Eggsy suddenly curses, actually looking abashed, "Shit, do you want me to leave?"

"What?" Harry's bewildered, watching Eggsy intently turn over a pack of pasta in his hands.

"You bringing someone home or what?" Eggsy asks, narrowing his eyes at him before craning his head all over the place as if Harry's actually brought someone home and left them in some other room.

Harry is suddenly overwhelmed. "You're very strange. Why do you always think I'm going to bring someone home?"

"Well, you--" Eggsy starts over again, accent growing stronger despite his hesitant tirade, "You knew it was me day off, right, so it must have meant you were lookin' forward to it--Lookin' forward to not havin' me 'round, so maybe you've got something planned," Eggsy explains.

"...I was merely wondering as to why you're here and not spending time with your friends and...people your age," Harry admits. "Enjoying life, as it were."

"I can't exactly play footie with my mates in this weather, can I?" Eggsy grouses.

The boy has a point. Harry nods, acquiescing.

"...So..." Eggsy hedges, "...you don't want me to leave?"

Harry huffs, incredulous, and gives in to ruffling Eggsy's hair. Eggsy squawks, and Harry smoothly escapes to open the fridge as a shield with the pretense of browsing for food. "What do you want for lunch?"

Eggsy has his head bowed as he tries to fix his hair, failing to hide a smile. "Whatever you want."

Harry is content in watching him for a few moments before he decides to ask, "Eggsy--what are you wearing?"

"This?" He looks down at himself. "Oh--you haven't seen me in my normal clothes, have you?" Eggsy grins, picking up a blue snapback from the counter behind him and putting it on his head. "All you've seen is my uniform, my work stuff, and my tracksuits. This is the real me, Haz. What do you think?"

The silence goes on for far too long and Eggsy's grin fades. "You're not impressed huh?"

"No--" Harry notices Eggsy's shoulder slump a fraction. " _No_ , I meant--Polo-shirts. That's what I was missing."

"Wot?"

Harry closes the fridge. "If you insist on wearing such things, you might as well commit to wearing it in its finer forms. Come, let's go."

 

\--»

 

Eggsy gapes, partially furious, mostly concerned.

"Harry, I think you have a shopping addiction. We were here _just yesterday_. Guv, you need to see a psychiatrist about this. You know if you saved all the money you've spent buying shit for me you coulda bought yourself a telly. Buy a telly instead, Harry. I'd rather you do that instead."

Frowning, Harry only holds a shirt in front of him with one hand, which forces Eggsy to properly hold it up with another.

Jesus fucking christ.

Eggsy leans in, keeping his voice low, "Harry, swear down, you can't just buy me stuff. I mean you can, _obviously_ , but not like every day."

"Why not?" Harry asks, eyebrow raised. "Is there a waiting period?"

"Harry, you absolute nutter." Eggsy takes the polo-shirt away and tries to fold it as he puts it back in its place on the display. "We need to talk, and I'm hungry. Let's go."

They end up at _YO! Sushi_ because Eggsy refuses to sit at the other posh places in Selfridges' Foodhall.

"Serious conversation, you and me," Eggsy announces after they've ordered their food. "Humour me, yeah?"

Harry nods, and he has this calculated look on his face that just makes Eggsy suspicious.

Eggsy starts, "We were shopping yesterday. In fact, we were doing it since two in the morning." Hearing the dumb shit that comes out of his mouth, Eggsy adds belatedly, "At Tesco. We were grocery shopping at Tesco."

"Yes," Harry concedes. "But this is different."

"How?"

"This is for your 'normal' clothes, as you've said. We've covered the formal aspect, we've covered work attire. This is something just for you."

How can he be so infuriating and so...ridiculously charming at the same time, like what the hell is this shit, is this just Eggsy's Harry-tinted goggles or what?

Resigned, Eggsy mumbles, "What does that even mean? Why does it matter?"

Harry briefly looks away. "You've said it yourself. You're trying to impress someone."

Eggsy stills, heart pounding. There's a lot of ways this conversation can go and he ain't ready for most of them, so he decides to be offended. "So you're sayin' I need to dress up in posh fancy clothes in me spare time just to impress someone, is that it?"

"Eggsy, no. That is not what I meant."

He scoffs, leaning back in his chair and crossing his arms. "Ain't it?"

"No." Harry leans forward. "It is not."

"Then what is it for?"

"...Think of it as part of a lesson."

"A lesson?"

"About navigating society, let's just say."

Eggsy raises his eyebrows. Okay. Now, he's too interested to be mad, but he squints at Harry anyway because he's resentful like that.

"I wouldn't seek to change you," Harry continues, earnest, and Eggsy feels his facade fade away. "I know of your brilliance--I can only _imagine_ your potential. Other people, however, they might need a bit of help. And that's where appearance comes into play."

Eggsy can't believe he's falling deeper at _YO! Sushi_ of all places, this is just embarrassing. He swallows, trying to be subtle with his long intake of breath.

"Do you understand, Eggsy? You're a teenager, surely you know how much material possessions play a part in--"

"Yeah, yeah, okay, I get it. You're redeemed, Haz," Eggsy says in a rush. Geez, did he really have to remind him that he's just a teenager? Christ. "I'm pretty sure our order's ready and I'm really hungry, let's come back to this."

They ultimately come to an agreement. For the day, at least. First, there's a limit to how many things Harry can buy for him. Today, that limit is five. Which is a lot, considering Eggsy initially said three. But Harry haggled up to seven, so really, this is a compromise.

Second, Eggsy gets to look around Selfridges _alone_ to see if anything catches his eye. On leaving the Foodhall, he gets stuck in the WHSmith area for a bit, passing by some stationery as he leaves. Eggsy can't believe his luck when he comes across a type of birthday card.

And it gets him thinking. Eggsy pulls out his mobile.

 

_‘Hey, when's your b-day?’_

 

**08\. 07. 2007 - Hazly Wobbles:**

_Classified._

 

Eggsy scowls. Bullshit.

 

_> :(_

 

He stares at the cards, and vows to come back alone without Harry to buy them with his own money. As it is, he's decided on a book and a box of chocolates. That way he can share it with his mum. That's two down.

 

_‘Where u be, i've picked two already.’_

 

**08\. 07. 2007 - Hazly Wobbles:**

_Men's Floor. Fred Perry._

 

Eggsy huffs. One of the reasons why he's already picked two when he barely scoured the first floor is that he knows he's not at that stage yet where he can just pick a piece of clothing and not worry about its price, even though it's probably gonna end up to be one of the cheapest in the damn store.

That's what Harry is for. Harry, who has at least three different clothes over his left arm and is scrutinizing the displays for more with the same damn hand.

Eggsy tries not to face-palm.

"Harry," He starts, going for the gentle approach.

"Hmm?"

"That's three, let's go home."

Harry fixes him with a begrudging stare, and holds out his left arm. "See if you like any of these."

_I'll like anything you give me._

Eggsy sighs. "Harry, them polo-shirts are exactly the same, just different colours." He takes them from him anyway. "And what are these trousers?"

"You seem to be having a malfunction with yours," Harry deadpans.

Eggsy gapes when it hits him. "Oi, that's the thing now. Saggy versus tight or a blend of the two," he informs him, indignant. What would Harry know about the fashion of the common people?

"A _blend_ ," Harry repeats, sounding vaguely nauseated, and shakes his head. "Regardless, do try it on."

"It's a Sunday, they're gonna close early, let's get a move on," He urges. "Also, I'm only taking one of these polo-shirts."

Harry frowns. "Which one?"

Eggsy looks at them for a moment. The black with the white stripe on the collar would be basic and simple. Low-key and understated, despite the brand. That should be the one.

He hands it back to Harry. "The black [and](http://i.imgur.com/lbH3OBS.png) gold-yellow. Might as well go with the pattern."

"What pattern?" Harry starts to put the shirt back in its proper place.

Eggsy shoots him an unimpressed look. "The mobile you gave me. Black and gold. That egg-thing. Black and gold with a bit of blue. One of the tracksuits you got me. Black and gold. The Nokia you gave me--Wait, no, that was gold and chrome. But I'm guessing if you had your way, that chrome would have been black. I'm surprised the winged trainers you got me wasn't in that colour, come to think of it," He muses, actually amazed by his own observations.

Harry's doing that blank face blinking thing again, and Eggsy tries to get him on track. "You done? Let's go."

"...The trousers?"

Rolling his eyes, Eggsy huffs. "You're a tailor, you probably know my size from yesterday's fitting. I trust you."

"That's four in total, we still have one more to go."

It's tempting to pick up something at random just to get it over with, but Eggsy doesn't want to take things for granted, so he actually makes an effort browsing around.

He's staring at a [jumper](http://i.imgur.com/zIlYgwe.png) when Harry asks, "Would you like that?"

"No. Just thinking about Quinlan," Eggsy chuckles. "Do you even remember him? My friend from Wetherby? Posh-looking, really smart, bit snooty."

Harry narrows his eyes at the jumper. Probably trying to remember.

"Nah, it's fine if you don't," He assures him. "I was just thinking it's something he'd wear," Eggsy says, moving on to the shoes display.

He immediately finds [something](http://i.imgur.com/QWLtjOZ.png) that catches his eye and he picks it up, smiling like an idiot.

"We can get that in your size," Harry says.

Eggsy shakes his head, chuckling, "Nah, guv. Just remembering my other friend. Sorry."

"...Which one?"

"Roxy," He admits.

Eggsy doesn't know why he's overwhelmed, but then again, maybe it's because all the stuff here, it's the type of shit that Roxy and Quinlan would get, something they could easily afford. And now, Eggsy's _here_. It's almost like they're all equals now in a way. And it's dumb, because they already were. They always kept on insisting that. But still.

Harry offers him a pair of shoes on display, quietly saying, "[This](http://i.imgur.com/yi4WDsY.png) would suit _you_ very well."

Eggsy rolls his eyes, pushing the emotions down. "Would it really?"

"Yes, it would." There's something like determination there. "It's casual enough, but you can get away with wearing it in a formal setting."

Seeing what he means, Eggsy nods. "Yeah. Okay. Get it for me."

 

\--»

 

They have take-away for dinner, and Harry sees Eggsy to the door when he goes to leave.

"Text me when you get home," Harry can't help but say.

Eggsy turns to look at him, face a mixture of awe and...something else Harry can't quite decipher. "You know, you've just spent the whole weekend with me. Practically since Friday afternoon till...now."

Harry nods, not knowing quite what to say. Is there even anything he's supposed to say?

"Are you sick of me yet?" Eggsy asks, soft despite the teasing, still holding his gaze.

"No," Harry says truthfully, mildly surprised by his own admission. Despite his professionalism, he could never stand to be around the same people for long in close quarters; It's why they rarely send anyone in with him during missions unless absolutely necessary.

But then again, this isn't work. Eggsy's always been different.

Harry looks at him now, as Eggsy smiles gently at the ground, huffing, and Harry absently reaches back for a scarf on the coat-rack.

"Eggsy," He murmurs, getting his attention and offering the scarf. He can't exactly wrap it around him with only one arm and not give away any more of his adept skills, so he only watches as Eggsy does it for himself.

"Harry."

"Mmm?"

Eggsy gazes up at him. "Tell me when you get sick of me, yeah?"

Harry doesn't know what possesses him to be honest once more as he tucks in the edges of the Eggsy’s scarf out of sight.

"I'm afraid you're going to have to wait a very, very long time."

 

»»

 

"Merlin, when can I take this sling off?" Harry grouses, adjusting his glasses.

"When I say so."

Harry looks through the reports on his laptop, muttering, "Merlin, you do know you can't stop me."

"You do know that if you seduced her the way you were supposed to, you wouldn't be in this predicament?"

Harry grits his teeth. "I did seduce her."

"Yes, you did. But you didn't put out. And your cover was blown. And now you're on medical leave."

This is ridiculous. It's just a stab wound. Merlin's simply being petty.

"What do you expect me to do?" He sounds purposely put upon in a fit of curiosity and dramatics.

"Galahad, I am a head of a division. I have responsibilities _outside_ those set of responsibilities. I have to intervene when agents are being difficult with their handlers like naughty children. I have to look over training programmes, I have Medical and R &D to check in on, I have files upon files to read and write, _I have to report to Arthur_." Merlin steadily goes on, "I do not have the time to watch and manage every single thing you do. You're an adult. I shouldn't have to."

Harry hums, content. "If you had any hair left, they'd be falling out, Merlin. Perhaps it's time for a holiday?"

Despite the well-meaning suggestion, it's one he doesn't make lightly.

He knows it's one Merlin wouldn't take.

Merlin sighs.

"Galahad, you'll have to come in for your check-ups. As it is, I recommend you work on your motor skills."

"I can still kill a man, what are you on about?"

" _Fine_ motor skills, such as exceptional accuracy in writing with your left hand," Merlin insists. "It'll give you something to do. Maybe it's time to dig for those sketchbooks you've hidden deep in your storage."

Harry narrows his eyes. "We do not speak of the sketchbooks."

There is a tense silence before Merlin bursts out in unconventional laughter, failing to cut himself off. "They were such shite," He reminisces.

Harry bristles. "Goodbye Merlin."

Medical leave. It means he has time.

And it would be well spent if he uses it to cut down the rest of Dean's goons once and for all. Harry can't have them walking around, breathing, within reach of Eggsy.

Unlocking the door to the storage near the stairs and frowning at the boxes, Harry makes his decision.

He'll most likely spend the rest of the night going over intel and planning timetables.

But first, he has to make time to buy a television.

 

\--»»

 

It's the last week of school and he has exams to take. But he's not that worried about it. He's too caught up in other things.

Eggsy will go to prom. He makes up his mind within the first fifteen seconds of being locked into a staring contest with Yvonne Jansen from across the dining hall.

He'll go to prom wearing the suit Harry bought for him, and he's gonna look so fucking good.

He's gonna look so fucking good for Harry.

Swear down.

Yvonne narrows her eyes back at him.

Ryan looks back and forth between them, cringing. Jamal shakes his head when she starts walking to their table. "Dammit, Gaz. What did you do this time?"

"I resent that accusation," Eggsy says, head held high.

Yvonne sits across from him.

He smiles, baring his teeth.

"Look, I get it," Eggsy says to her.

"Get what?" She flutters her eyelashes, voice excessively sweet with venom.

"The whole...Mr. Hart-kinky thing you've got going on," He utters low, leaning towards her intensely. "I know it probably turns you on or some shit--That thrill you get from that dirty little secret fantasy of yours?"

Yvonne traces her teeth with her tongue before she grins and whispers, sultry, "What about that little fantasy of mine?"

"It's great and all, but you need to get over it and consider _reality_."

She chuckles, nonplussed and ever-superior. It gets on Eggsy's nerves.

"What reality?" Yvonne sounds as if she's humouring him and he hates that even more.

"The reality that he ain't for you," He grits his teeth, escalating, "That he has someone else--That he's fucking _taken_."

Yvonne stares at him until the arrogant look on her face fades away. Just as she tilts her head in curiosity, Ryan hits Jamal on the shoulder, exclaiming, "Oh shit. Mr. Hart! That's the bloke!"

"Wot." Eggsy actually forgot that they were there.

"The bloke!" Ryan tries to explain, "The one you kept talkin' 'bout! ' _Manners maketh man_ '?"

Jamal finally understands. "Oh yeah, that bloke--Shit," He frowns. "It all makes sense why you hate him so much, Gaz. Is he dating your mum now, is that it?"

Eggsy gapes, and finds Yvonne doing the same thing at him. He falls back on indignation and gets up from his seat, hissing, "Shut up."

He kinda feels bad about being a dick to his friends, but it had to be done. He'll just find a way to make it up to them. It's the last week of school and prom is on Saturday. Maybe he can pool enough money so Ryan and Jamal can go with him.

Harry isn't home when Eggsy gets there, which is a bit annoying and really suspicious. Like, what could he be doing that's so important when his right arm is out of commission? Harry needs to sit his arse home and relax. He isn't there for the whole day and Eggsy leaves, trying not to be short with his mum who gives him these really dodgy looks.

 

»»

 

On Tuesday, he finishes another massage training session with Anna, and Eggsy just has to do laundry because he spilled this scented oil on himself and it's rank as hell. It's so strong that even the shower doesn't do him any good considering Max sniffs at him weird.

When Eggsy gets back from work, Harry _still_ ain't there and Eggsy just throws his clothes in the dryer.

He mulishly changes into his sweats and scowls at the fridge before giving in and cooking some shite spaghetti, which actually takes longer than it should. What could Harry be doing right now? Why isn't he home? Why doesn't Eggsy just text him?

Why hasn't _Harry_ texted him?

There's that annoying chime from the dryer and Eggsy goes to take care of it after doing the dishes.

While it saves space, the thing with stackable washer-dryers is that it's a bit of a problem for people on the... _shorter_ side.

So Eggsy is practically on his tip-toes, frustratingly concentrated in trying to reach for something in the dryer. It's there, he knows, because he's missing one bloody sock, so it has to be all the way in the back where Eggsy can't fucking see, much less _get at_.

Suddenly, Harry is there, _all heat_ , nearly plastered against Eggsy's back as he reaches his left arm into the dryer, mouth close to Eggsy's ear as he murmurs, "Shh, I've got you."

Eggsy lets out a hiss, letting himself lean back against him, almost forgetting the slinged arm until the last second. "Here you go," says Harry as he offers him the sock. Eggsy clutches it against his chest, trying to keep his cool. He can hear the smile on Harry's when he goes on, lightly teasing, "How have you been doing this all these past weeks?"

"Shut up. I had a stick," He tries to sound properly annoyed, and it's difficult with Harry still behind him, his left hand still holding the sock against Eggsy's chest even though he doesn't _need_ to. It's almost like Eggsy can pretend that he's being embraced by Harry from behind. He tamps that thought down and grumbles instead. " _Someone_ took my stick away."

"That stick was for the curtains, Eggsy,” Harry huffs, starting to pull away, and Eggsy tries not to be too disappointed, considering that Harry stops. "What happened to your cologne?” He can hear the frown in Harry's voice.

"What?"

"It's--Did you run out? Do you need--You smell different."

"Oh," Eggsy laughs, but it ends up a bit awkward. He's not really comfortable about telling anyone about his ongoing training. He's even told Anna to keep it from his mum. Admitting this whole situation would make Eggsy look really ungrateful since Harry got him the job at the bookshop, so he just stupidly blurts, "You know how it is, girls and their perfumes, yeah?"

"Ah." Harry pulls away.

"Anyway--You're home late. Where you been?" He manages to be casual.

Unfortunately, so does Harry. "Out and about."

At the corner of Eggsy's mind, there's a treacherous thought that the reason Harry never brings anyone home is because he takes them somewhere else. Like some posh hotel suite that Eggsy's only seen in them films.

Pushing down the bitterness, Eggsy only gives him a quick smile.

By the time Eggsy's done with putting his clothes away upstairs, trying not to think about it, Harry has obviously found the food in the kitchen going by the questioning look sent his way.

"What?" Eggsy challenges, a bit defensive. "I'm an only child and my mum has had three jobs at the same time. I know how to cook," He mutters. "I wasn't gonna burn the house down, geez."

Harry rolls his eyes and mollifies him, "That wasn't my concern, Eggsy. Merely surprised."

He goes on to serve himself a plate and Eggsy squawks, "Oi, I said I can cook, I didn't say it was any good."

Harry only keeps going, calm as he pleases, and Eggsy raises his hands and leaves for the living room 'cos he can't watch this disaster. Soon after, he's so engrossed in a book that he barely notices Harry enter the living room until he speaks.

"That wasn't bad."

Eggsy peers over his book in suspicion. " _'Wasn't bad'_ don't exactly mean it's _good,_ does it?"

"Could use a little less salt," Harry mildly advises, a small smile in the corner of his mouth.

"Well, maybe I'm just feeling salty today."

Harry only huffs, amused. Probably because yeah, that didn't really make any sense. "Will you mind if I play some records?"

Eggsy feels himself thaw against his will. For fuck's sake.

 _It's your house_ , he doesn't say, _you can do anything you want._

"No, I don't mind," Eggsy says instead, determinedly keeping his eyes on the page and ignoring the flush of warmth on his skin as Harry sits on his usual end.

He absolutely refuses to point out that there's literally another sofa and an armchair to occupy.

Old records play on as it rains outside, and it isn't long until Eggsy spreads out on their sofa, encroaching on Harry's space with his socked toes lightly touching his thigh, barely there.

 

»»»

 

On Wednesday, Eggsy powers through the rain. He still doesn't have an umbrella, but it's not that bad considering that Harry's coat is actually warm and water-resistant. The weather will only get even worse in the next weeks, so he should really go out to get a brolly. It shouldn't be too expensive.

But since Harry practically said to take anything that he liked and fit him, Eggsy opens the unlocked storage room near the stairs again just to see if there are other coats in there he can wear.

There's a large box in Harry's storage room, and if it isn't lying, it's a flat screen TV.

Eggsy needs to find his Theory sheet.

Or wait, does he?

Harry could have just bought this for himself, and not because Eggsy mentioned it. Right? That's a more likely possibility.

Now, in a weird way, he doesn't want Harry to come home, because that would mean Eggsy would spend hours trying to figure it out and end up with nothing, because all he'd actually do is stare at Harry and fail in keeping the dirty thoughts away.

Eggsy leaves before Harry can get home and he invites Ryan and Jamal over. They all have to suffer the fate of his mum grilling them about prom and dates when she gets home earlier than expected. Eggsy sends them apologetic looks all throughout as he ushers her to go to sleep already.

At least Eggsy's gotten enough money to help Ryan and his girl reach the last stretch and get tickets while Jamal simply refuses, saying he has to work that day. Either way, he tried, so that means he's not that shitty of a friend. When they start talking about suits and tuxedos, Eggsy keeps quiet until he's asked about his. He only says that he has a friend who's gonna let him borrow one, and for some reason they don't question that at all.

 

\--»

 

It's five in the morning on Thursday when Harry's mobile rings. He answers it without looking considering that he's a bit busy at the moment.

" _Hart."_ Lestrade is clearly trying to keep his calm.

Harry hums, ignoring the mild disappointment. "Inspector."

" _Would you have anything to do with the concussed criminals found bound in Camden Town?_ "

" _'_ Concussed criminals found bound in Camden Town _'_ , why, that sounds like a headline from _The Sun,_ " Harry muses, leaning his head sideways to keep the mobile against his shoulder.

" _Hart._ "

"Why would you think I had anything to do with such violence?" He squints at the blank page on his small leather notebook.

" _Apparently, they're well-known associates of Dean Baker._ "

"Oh? Interesting," Harry mutters absently, mulling over what to sketch.

" _Hart._ "

"Use words, Inspector."

" _One of them hasn't had food or water for thirty-two hours when we found him._ "

"Goodness. Well, it's good that you found them in time." He starts scribbling on the page, still undecided. "Kudos, Inspector. Does the Met hand out awards for such heroism?"

" _Hart._ "

"Inspector."

" _Don't._ "

Harry frowns at the scribbled dot on the page. One of the things he's quite adept at is knowing when and when not to push. Lestrade could easily be near breaking point.

" _Where are you right now?_ "

The table rattles, jostling the notebook. It's good that he wasn't in the process of trying something or _else_ \--Harry shoots an unimpressed glare at the man sitting across from him, aliased Rottweiler.

Unfortunately, he's too heavily out of it to fully appreciate the weight of Harry's displeasure. Rottweiler struggles again, sluggish. Tsk. Harry knew he should have tied his legs to the chair. He shouldn’t be getting lazy.

" _Hart._ "

"I'll have you know, Inspector, that I've been injured since last week, forcing my dominant arm into a sling. In fact, I'm on medical leave--With the exception of the boorish responsibility of paperwork and files I have to deal with in my own office at home. Do you honestly believe I'd be awake at such an hour for any other purpose?"

Lestrade sighs, weary. Harry shouldn't make any more mess for him to deal with. But then that would mean he'd have to find another way to get rid of---Harry looks to Rottweiler who catches his stare. The man starts to struggle with more effort, straining against the gag in his mouth and the ropes that bind him to the chair.

Harry huffs, rolling his eyes.

 

\--»

 

Eggsy does a double-take when he finds Harry home without his suit-jacket on, occupying Eggsy's usual space on their sofa as he reads with the old records playing in the background.

He tries for a calming inhalation, actually considering praying to a higher power because _them pecs_ and--

"Ah, Eggsy," Harry looks up at him. "You're home. How was your day?"

Eggsy really hopes he isn't imagining the fondness in his eyes.

He huffs, willing the emotions away. " _I'm_ home? _You're_ home. This is different," He teases, unbuttoning his blazer and laying it neatly on the armrest before sitting on the sofa. It's then that he notices a bit of red on Harry's collar and--

There's a heaviness that settles at the pit of Eggsy's stomach.

"Just had a few things I've been meaning to take care of," Harry tells him mildly. And Eggsy feels worse because--

"Yeah, I bet, guv," He mutters, trying to be upbeat about it. "Lipstick stain on your collar."

Harry frowns, a hand immediately feeling for his collar. Eggsy sucks in a cheek, biting. He wonders what lie Harry's gonna come up with this time.

Suddenly, there's a bit of genuine laughter, and Eggsy startles, hating how quick it was. Harry doesn't laugh often.

"Eggsy, this is blood." Harry's trying to settle but he's smiling like he can't quite help it, and Eggsy tries not to die at how good he feels because he gets to see this side of Harry.

"Blood?"

Harry presses his lips together and murmurs, "I cut myself shaving this morning. One hand. I guess I’m not as adroit as I used to be when I was younger."

Eggsy's suddenly very much tempted to crawl onto Harry's lap and scrutinise the red for himself, to check if Harry is telling the truth, but damn, he doesn't have the right to do that shit. He doesn't have the right to be jealous. He doesn't have a right to _anything_.

"Well, since you asked," Eggsy starts, trying not to be spiteful. "I spent my day trying to avoid Yvonne Jansen, but she ended up inviting me to a party next week. Isn’t that weird? I might get to wear those clothes you bought me after all."

"...Ah." Harry clears his throat. "Speaking of clothes. I'll be picking up your attire on Saturday afternoon."

"Wow. Thanks," Eggsy falls short on sounding excited. He needs to work on his skills. It's never as good when he's faced with Harry.

 

»»»

 

 _Manners maketh man_ , Eggsy thinks, staring at the ceiling, unable to sleep.

_Manners maketh man._

He frowns, turning his head to stare at the plush toy of a [dog](http://i.imgur.com/xvXBV0W.jpg) and an aviator [bear](http://i.imgur.com/ildzBNd.jpg) propped up on a shelf.

_Oxfords not Brogues._

He sits up from his bed.

_Oxfords not Brogues._

Sluggishly, he makes his way to his wardrobe drawers, opening the bottom one and digging through his clothes.

 _Manners maketh man_. _Oxfords not Brogues._

He feels his pulse start to pick up when his hands find the box.

Eggsy takes it out and places it on the bed.

Taking a deep breath, he takes off the lid.

It's most of the things he got from the Imperial War Museum, and he takes a moment to stare at them before letting himself touch.

_Oxfords not Brogues._

 

\--»

 

Harry is summoned to Arthur's office, and he wants it over with as soon as possible. He has matters to tend to.

"Galahad," Arthur greets from his desk, smiling. It doesn't distract from the way he's watching him intently.

"Arthur."

Seeing that Harry will give him no other reaction, Arthur shortly chuckles before losing all levity from his expression. "The long-term proposal. I've given you enough time to think about it."

Harry stares at him blankly, waiting.

Arthur questions him, hand on a closed file on his desk. "What is your decision, Galahad?"

Harry only watches as the hand almost absently pushes the file forward, watches it stop abruptly when he says, "No."

Taken-aback is a bad look on Arthur's face. "Pardon?"

Looking him straight in the eyes, Harry asserts, "My decision is no. I _politely_ decline your proposal."

There's a brewing storm beneath Arthur's calm expression. "Why?"

Opening his mouth to answer, Harry stops, remembering one crucial detail as he stares at Arthur's ugly tie.

He hasn't bought Eggsy a bow-tie. The boy said not to buy him anything more in first place because he had a tie somewhere at home, but it's a formal event for hell's sake, he can't be wearing _some_ tie. He deserves a bow-tie. It would match better with the suit. But he's already bought him too much, and Eggsy would protest, therefore--

"Galahad."

"I have responsibilities," He tells him. "Also, I practically just failed a mission. Despite Merlin's excuse of medical leave, I am fully aware I'm being punished for it."

"So what is this, self-flagellation?"

Harry rolls his eyes, relishing the indignation that flashes through Arthur's expression. "Regardless, my answer is no."

He stands, excusing himself out, but Arthur calls him one last time.

"Galahad. When you rethink your...responsibilities and change your mind--The proposal still stands. I await your final answer."

 

\--»

 

It's Friday and school is over. People are hugging each other, but most of them will see each other at prom tomorrow night and the party next week.

Eggsy winks left and right, wishing everyone a great summer back and giving his mates a quick shoulder pat and a grin before making his way to Harry's place.

Surprise, surprise, Harry ain't home.

Eggsy sighs and sets his duffel bag down in the guest room, taking out the box full of IWM stuff and placing it all the way back in his wardrobe. He heads downstairs for a quick shower before returning upstairs. When he opens the wardrobe again, Eggsy takes a few steps back, as far as the room allows, and he spends a moment just staring.

 _Maybe I like him 'cos he buys me stuff_.

Eggsy keeps thinking this even as he puts on the new polo-shirt, staring at his reflection. He's in his room at Harry's house, wearing all the new clothes that Harry got for him last Sunday.

He takes off the Fred Perry shoes and looks for a particular shoebox in the back of his wardrobe instead.

Eggsy puts on the winged trainers and stares at his reflection again.

He tries to think of an alternate universe where Harry doesn't buy him anything at all, and wonders if it still ends up like this.

Wonders if he ends up feeling like shit, undeserving, but still desperately wanting him anyway.

In the still quiet, his breaths are loud in his ears and his pulse accelerates when he feels the door open and close downstairs.

He waits, closing his eyes as he hears Harry walk around, go up the stairs and into his office.

 

\--

 

Harry had to spend most of the day in HQ to hand in some paperwork and do other administrative shit he wants nothing to do with. He counts it as a blessing that Merlin wasn't there, too busy looking over something in Berlin Branch.

Still--"How about now?" Harry badgers Merlin again as he sits by his desk, using his mobile instead of his glasses.

" _No. Stop bedevilling me, Galahad. I'm literally in another country._ "

"It's a stab wound. It shouldn't need a sling," He complains, fiddling with the straps on his arm.

" _Are you a medical professional?_ "

"Yes, actually," He smoothly reminds him.

" _Oh yes, when was that again? Twenty years ago?" Merlin shoots back. "I know you. I know how you'll do something to aggravate your injury. So yes, you need a sling. It'll keep you in place, make you heal faster._ "

Merlin drops the call and Harry goes down stairs to figure out what he should prepare for dinner. Usually, he'd go to out for the Italian around the corner. He's really not for cooking, unless special occasion requires otherwise. However--

"Hey Haz," Eggsy calls out, "Are you telling me that if I'm wearing all this, I'll impress someone and score?"

Harry raises his eyebrows, closing the pantry and turning around.

From the kitchen, he sees him enter the dining room and Harry feels a surge of pride at the sight of him. "I'm sorry, what was the question?"

Eggsy scowls, pulling at his new shirt and-- _oh_.

Harry tilts his head; There are a smattering of moles on his arms, particularly on his right, vaguely reminiscent of the Orion constellation he'd seen on his trip to Moscow back in ninety-five.

He realises then that he's actually never seen him in short sleeves.

"Harry?"

He takes a breath, "What are you wearing those for?"

"Dunno, just trying them out to see. I'm probably gonna wear this to Yvonne Jansen's party next Friday."

"Ah," Harry turns away and decides to call for take-away. "Anything in particular you'd like, Eggsy?"

"What?"

"Take-away. Italian."

"Whatever you think I'd like. I'm not an expert on Italian, guv."

"Mmm."

The moment Harry finishes the call, Eggsy's suddenly behind him, leaning back on the kitchen counter, staring.

"What is it?"

"Did you really have to be all fancy with your perfect Italian? Like, was that necessary?" He sounds somewhat in awe, still staring.

Harry watches him for a moment. "There's something else. What is it?"

Eggsy swallows, briefly looking down. "Prom's tomorrow."

"Yes," He tries to figure him out. "Second thoughts?"

"Aha, yeah." Eggsy shakes his head, which is an odd thing to do when you're saying yes.

Still, Harry humours him. "Why?"

Eggsy mumbles, and Harry takes a step closer, murmuring, "Use words. If you need anything, if you want anything--You must use words."

He sees Eggsy take a long drag of breath, near shaking, and--"I dunno how to dance."

Harry blinks. He finds himself smiling softly. "That's nothing to be embarrassed about."

Eggsy glares daggers at him.

"Come, let me show you." He tilts his head, starting to make his way to the living room.

"Wait," Eggsy exclaims. "Your arm, Harry--"

Harry takes his sling off.

Eggsy gapes, shooting him a dubious look.

"It's fine. It just needs a stretch." Slowly stretching his arm out causes pain, but it's one he'd rather endure than muscle atrophy.

"So...your arm wasn't broken?" Eggsy asks, a hint of accusation in his tone.

"No, I said 'work-related accident’," He evades, dry and humorous. Harry takes the chance to briefly run his thumb under his watch as a habit. "Pick a record to dance to."

"How would I know?" Eggsy mumbles, running his fingers along the vinyl.

Harry continues to twist his wrist in slow motions. The more he tries to get used to the feeling of excessive movement, the more it hurts. "Surely you've perused my collection even in my absence? That wasn't exactly a secret. You asked me. I gave you permission."

"Okay, yeah. What about this [Robin Hood](http://i.imgur.com/PYOvhRz.jpg) single?"

"To be fair, I don't know what that is. But whatever you like, Eggsy."

The pain is manageable, and he's certain that he won't rip the stitches. It's just dancing for hell's sake.

"What do you mean you don't know? It's your collection." He hears Eggsy put the record on the phonograph regardless.

"Most of them are my mother's," Harry murmurs absently, feeling Eggsy hover behind him.

The song [begins](https://drive.google.com/file/d/0B0cJIN3EC9N0X25zaDUyVFg0Ync/view?usp=sharing), and Harry turns. There's a strange look on Eggsy's face. When the vocals start to come on, there's a beat of silence between them, and Eggsy immediately becomes embarrassed, quickly turning away. "Oh god, I regret my decision. Let me die."

Harry rolls his eyes, terribly endeared. "Commit, Eggsy." He lightly holds him back by his elbow, stopping him from turning it off.

When Eggsy slowly turns towards him, he has his head down, but it's clear he's flushing red and Harry finds that he's having the time of his life. He makes a considerable effort not to laugh. Eggsy doesn't stop, going further on until he's practically plastered against Harry's front, hiding his face.

Heat emanates from Eggsy in waves and Harry feels somewhat apologetic. He ends up patting him awkwardly on the shoulder, still trying not to laugh. "You're fine."

Eggsy huffs, mulish and disbelieving. Harry lets his hand settle until it slowly comes up to pat his head instead. Eggsy stills for a fraction before relaxing, and Harry frowns against Eggsy's temple. "Your hair's grown."

"Of course it has, Harry. That's what hair does," Eggsy mumbles against Harry's shoulder.

Harry purses his lips, back to reigning in laughter. He privately takes a moment of silence for Merlin as he runs his fingers through Eggsy's hair, smiling, "What I meant was, would you like a haircut before your prom tomorrow evening?"

"If we have time," Eggsy murmurs against Harry's neck, content.

Having successfully distracted Eggsy, at least a little bit, Harry gently begins to move and they start to sway to the music. It's barely dancing, but it's a start.

 

\--»

 

Saturday morning, Eggsy tries to assure his mum that everything's gonna be alright and that she should go to work already. It's only when he finds a pack of condoms left on the dinner table that he realises what his mum's been so dodgy about this past week.

"Mum, no!" He yells at her as she leaves the house, mortified.

Eggsy goes to Harry's place to change into some better clothes. Thankfully, Harry isn't there to ask any questions and he snatches the shopping list as a second thought, taking some banknotes from the open jar that's still on the counter.

Eggsy goes to Selfridges with the intention of buying the birthday cards. On his way to leave, he sees Raj. And that's when he remembers Harry still hasn't told him just how much the suit cost.

"Would you like a printout?" Raj asks, joking.

"Actually, yeah, that's a good idea," Eggsy says seriously.

Raj raises his eyebrows and starts to look really uncomfortable when he realises that Eggsy's not messing about.

"...Er, you genuinely have no notion of how much it cost?"

The way he's reacting really starts to make Eggsy suspicious and worried. Like, okay, a cheap suit here could be a hundred quid if there's a sale or something. Presumably, Harry doesn't like cheap shit. So maybe three hundred quid as a midline guess, five hundred at the most. Hell, okay, maybe seven hundred 'cos Harry _is_ a bit weird.

Eggsy only pushes down the shame at his shamelessness that he would even consider Harry spending seven hundred quid on him at once. He tries for patience, "No, Raj, I _don't_. Else I wouldn't be asking you now, would I?"

Raj starts glancing around like he's paranoid or something. "Look, sir, I--"

Eggsy startles. "Shit, man, don't call me 'sir'."

"Look, if he hasn't told you, there must be a reason. I'm not getting in the way of that--"

"Why do you look like there's a hitman just around the corner?" Eggsy exclaims. "Raj, mate, just give me an estimate."

"I don't want to get fired for getting into the customer's personal business."

"Oh my god, what personal business? Swear down, I didn't think it was gonna be this difficult. Mate, I have to get the groceries and I have prom in the evening, give me a break."

"Prom? Wait, how old are you?"

"Sixteen," Eggsy lies flawlessly.

"Oh, well, since it's _legal_." Raj rolls his eyes.

"I'm not going to comment on that," Eggsy decides. "Man, you don't have to say anything. Just twitch your eye or something, yeah? Come on, what, two hundred?"

Raj gives him a patronising look.

"No? What? Higher or lower? Higher? Three hundred?"

Raj's eyebrows raise alarmingly as if he's concerned for Eggsy's mental health.

"Okay, fine. Five hundred?"

Raj gapes at him.

"Ugh, seven hundred? Come on, what? Higher or lower? A grand?" Eggsy blurts out in frustration.

There's something that could look like pity on Raj's face when he shakes his head.

Now, Eggsy's just desperate. He doesn't even know what he's saying, he just wants to get this over with. "A thousand three hundred?"

Raj mutters, inaudible.

"What?"

"Twice."

"Twice what?"

"Times two, you dolt," He utters, ready to leave.

Eggsy gapes, uncomprehending. "Wait. No. That's--that doesn't make sense--Oi, I need evidence!" He whispers furiously, still disbelieving.

Raj just gives him that look of pity. "I can't help you. I'm sorry."

Everything starts getting hazy for a bit and Eggsy makes his way out of the store.

It can't be. He refuses to believe it. He'll ask Harry later. He'll test it out.

Eggsy stops to get a quick haircut at the cheapest place he could find, pressed for time as he is, and he has his hands full when he makes his way back to Harry's private street with bags of groceries from Waitrose, having had most of Harry's new list checked off.

It's just his luck when one of the neighbours opens their door, getting ready to leave when they catch sight of Eggsy.

And look, stopping when you're being stared at is a dead give-away that you're doing something wrong.

So Eggsy nods, smiling and polite at the old lady as he keeps going. He's sure he's looking believably calm on the outside, but really he's frantically trying to figure out how to get through this without ending up getting the cops called on him.

He can still feel her curious stare when he sets the bags down in front of the door. The idea hits him that he could be some delivery boy just doing his job, but his hands are already palming his pockets and instinct demands that he _has_ to commit.

Eggsy frowns, actually reaching in his pockets this time, turning around and looking at from where he came as if he could find what he's missing down on the pavement. He accidentally meets her gaze again and he huffs with a little smile, awkward and disarming, "Seem to have lost my keys."

She raises her eyebrows. "Try under the mat."

He can feel the smile on his face turn wooden as he stares at the mat under his feet. The thud of his heart is deafening in his ears and he hates how he's starting to feel resigned about the state of things. Eggsy already knows it won't be there. But really, what else can he do but play along? He steps back and bends down anyway, raising the mat--

To find that he's absolutely wrong.

Eggsy doesn't have the luxury to dwell on it and closes his mouth, grabbing the key and turning to the old lady, smiling. "Thanks."

She shrugs, moving on to leave. "My husband does that for me sometimes. He knows I forget. At least he's not completely useless."

 

»»

 

Harry gets home at four in the afternoon and Eggsy immediately hides the birthday cards in his desk drawer. He meets him just as he makes his way up the stairs, and Harry stops. "You got a haircut."

"Yeah, I thought you'd be home late, and I got impulsive just 'cos."

"I'll leave you to change then," Harry pleasantly says, handing him the garment bag folded over on his left arm. He's back to wearing the sling again on his right, and Eggsy doesn't even ask. He only feels the weight of the suit in his arms. A suit that could possibly be worth two thousand quid and-- _Christ_.

"I'mma put it in the guest room for a bit, I have to take a quick shower."

"As you wish. Just call out whenever you need me."

 

\--»

 

Harry is waiting in his home office when his mobile rings.

"Merlin, what is it?"

" _Put your glasses on._ "

"Why?"

" _There's a message for you._ "

 

\--»

 

Eggsy pulls his black tie out from his bag and mechanically puts it on before shrugging on the suit jacket. Glancing at himself in the mirror, he whistles, because damn he looks so fucking good.

There's a knock on the door and Eggsy stupidly waits for him to come in until he realises that Harry has no intention of actually doing so until Eggsy gives him permission. Jesus.

"Come in." He rolls his eyes.

Harry stops at the sight of him, blinking.

"What?" Eggsy questions, starting to get self-conscious.

"That's a bit--more fitting than I thought it would be." Harry purses his lips. "You're going with the tie?"

"Yes, Harry, I'm going with the tie," Eggsy tells him in exasperation. Harry comes closer to scrutinise him from head to toe, and Eggsy tries not to let it get to him. But he catches their reflection in the mirror, and it takes his breath away.

"Wow, look at us, huh?" Eggsy huffs, quiet. "What a pair."

Harry only double-checks his lapels and hums.

Eggsy can't help but feel out of sorts like the fucking loser that he is. Of all the people in the world, he fancies Harry who's practically twice his age. Harry, who probably can't even look at him that way. Ever.

Fuck.

Eggsy steps back, avoiding Harry's hands, and reaches for his Oxfords in the wardrobe. He sits on the bed to put it on, and the thought comes to him, involuntary: _Oxfords not Brogues,_ and he glances at Harry who's steadily watching him right back.

"Do me a favour, yeah?"

"Mmm?"

Eggsy wills his voice to be steady. "There's another box in the wardrobe. White. Old-looking, but not tattered. Get it for me--Please," He adds belatedly, sharply tying a knot on his shoe.

He keeps an eye on Harry who does as he asks. Harry holds the box out to him.

"Come closer. Put it on the bed," Eggsy murmurs.

Harry complies easily despite the eyebrow raise.

"Now, open it for me."

Eggsy keeps busy, tying his other shoe, furtively watching through his lashes, keenly observing Harry's reaction when he takes off the lid to find the IWM gifts. It's quick, but there it was anyway, a flash of _recognition_ , and Eggsy immediately looks down at his shoes before Harry's gaze even meets his.

His heart is pounding like mad and every part of himself is silently screaming.

_It's him. It's him. It's always been him._

But Eggsy only stands, straightening his suit. He holds his hands out by his sides, playing the idiot as he looks at Harry whose face is eerily blank.

"What is this for, Eggsy?" Harry asks carefully, gesturing at the box.

"Oh, this?" Eggsy walks closer, reaching a hand in and pulling out a gold aeroplane [pin](http://i.imgur.com/zm5avCz.jpg). He holds it out to Harry. "Impress me with what you can do with one arm. Pin it on me."

"Where?" Harry murmurs.

Eggsy shrugs, touching his left lapel. "Here maybe?"

"I'm not that impressive, I'm going to need a bit of help," Harry says, soft. "Hold this part."

Somehow he manages to get it done, and their fingers touch in admiring the pin.

"Well," Eggsy says, trying to be upbeat despite the stilted air of the room. He turns and finds his mobile and his wallet on the desk, putting it in his pockets.

He leaves to make his way downstairs, trying to catch his breath.

He's looking for a coat in storage when he hears the footsteps.

"It's raining," says Harry.

"Yeah, why do you think I'm looking for a coat?"

He decides, _fuck it_ , and grabs the greenish-brown one. Eggsy can't be too posh and perfect, people will get suspicious.

"I've called a cab for you."

Eggsy tries not to be annoyed and ungrateful as he turns back to him, [shrugging](http://i.imgur.com/AMVyu4l.jpg) the coat on. "Thanks."

"Are you sure I can't convince you to wear a bow-tie?"

Eggsy scoffs, "Unless you can pull one out from thin air, guv--"

Harry neatly pulls one out from his pocket. "Not exactly thin air."

Torn between groaning and laughing in hysterics, Eggsy only huffs, rolling his eyes, petulant. "Fine."

He starts loosening his tie without any grace whatsoever. Harry comes closer, unbuckles the sling on his right arm and settles it over the handrail of the stairs behind himself without looking.

Eggsy stops, and now he can only clutch at the tie, mind going blank. His pulse is racing and doesn't know what to do, and he doesn't want to embarrass himself. God, _fuck_.

Harry's hands settles over his, warm and shocking. He undoes the tie and drapes it on Eggsy's shoulder. Harry puts the bow-tie on him in quick, gentle, efficient movements. His knuckles brush up against the lower centre of Eggsy's bare throat and Eggsy's _weak_ , swaying in a fraction, gritting his teeth.

"There you go," Harry murmurs.

"Mhm."

"....And one more thing..."

There's a long silence where Eggsy waits, and Harry finally pulls something out from his pocket, looking a bit pained, and...

" ** _Fuck_** _, Harry._ " Eggsy stares at the packet of condoms and tries not to die. "Jesus--"

"Eggsy, I've no idea what you have planned for tonight-- _or who_ \--" Harry mutters, powering through, "But a gentleman always--"

"No!" Eggsy yells, mortified. "Who the fuck-- _who the fuck do you think I'm_ \--Fuck, Harry."

"Eggsy, I don't know your size, so I have two of each." He brandishes the packets like a fucking fan and--

" ** _No!_** Oh my god," He fumes, "You're just like my mum, what the fuck, how did you two--it's like you two are in cahoots or something and--" Eggsy immediately stops that train of thought, but he's already angry and suspicious. "What the fuck, Harry, you ain't my dad!"

"Nor do I bloody _want_ to be," Harry raises his voice back, and it stops Eggsy cold.

 _Well,_ _fucking good_. He doesn't say. He only watches Harry swallow.

"...But there are things that must be taught, and as a responsible adult I--"

Eggsy swiftly takes the packets from him just to shut him up, and he waits a few beats before he goes to shove it down Harry's pocket where it came from, which only brings them closer to each other, but Eggsy's way too irritated to let it affect him, so he very seriously utters, "Listen to me."

Harry stares down at him, face only a few inches away.

"I. am. _not_. **_fucking_**. anyone. at _prom_."

Harry's eyes rove over his face, and Eggsy stares back, determined--until the moment he thinks he sees Harry glancing down at his mouth and--"Well. Good."

 

»»»

 

Prom is being held at a fancy posh hotel suite in St. Paul's because Holland Park students have rich parents for donations. And Eggsy can't even be indignant about it because he's just trying to forget the whole disaster at Harry's place. Traffic is horrendous and he gets there about six thirty in the evening, meeting Ryan and his girlfriend at the front.

"Damn, Gaz. Look at you mate!" Ryan exclaims.

"Nah, look at Chelsea here!" Eggsy grins. "This tosser treatin' you right, Chels?"

Ryan playfully cuffs his shoulder.

"So-so," She scrunches her face before grinning back at him, and Ryan pinches her on the cheek.

Eggsy laughs, looking away from them.

"Oi," Ryan catches his attention, uncharacteristically self-conscious. "My brother let me borrow his suit. It don't fit so bad, does it?"

"Are you kidding me? Fuck, mate, I would never have guessed," Eggsy guffaws.

Chelsea nudges Ryan's side with her elbow, smiling. "See? I told you."

It feels weird, being happy for them and being a bit bitter at the same time.

Before he goes in, he checks his mobile one last time. He has four messages.

 

**14\. 07. 2007 - Jamal:**

_You & Ry have a great time! Also Chelsea. Just not too much._

_P.S. Don't get something slipped in your drink again._

_P.S.S. Be careful of Jansen._

 

**14\. 07. 2007 - Queenie:**

_Please don't get in trouble. I have a life._

 

**14\. 07. 2007 - Roxy:**

_Behave. Good luck! Tell me all the details._

 

**14\. 07. 2007 - Mum:**

_Be good now, you hear? Be safe!_

 

Jesus, why the fuck does everyone think he's gonna get lucky tonight?

 

\--

 

Harry enters the cab, giving the driver directions to the designated meeting place. As he sits back throughout his journey, he wonders what Mycroft has in store for him. He wishes it's one he can avoid. Despite that, the message was one he couldn't ignore, considering it's work-related, apparently ordered by Arthur.

He pushes away all the thoughts and tries to sketch on his small notebook instead.

 

\--»

 

They really went all out on the [place](http://i.imgur.com/1ud5PKR.jpg); There's a stage at the front and a large dance space surrounded by posh round tables with long tablecloths, complete with flowers in the centre, fancy arse plates and utensils. The lighting changes from one colour to another and back again, and there are speakers wired all over the room.

The best part is the food.

Eggsy doesn't hold back on eating, 'cos he sure as hell is gonna get his fifty quid's worth. Ryan and Chelsea are clearly thinking the same thing, and they have the fucking time of their lives.

Yvonne Jansen rolls her eyes at them from the table she's in not too far away. And as much as Eggsy despises her, she looks fucking good. But she doesn't need telling, she already knows, even if the people who can't take their eyes off her weren't enough hint.

"You could have dressed uglier, you know," Yvonne berates him, clearly checking him out as he watches Ryan and Chelsea dance like idiots to fast paced music.

Eggsy can't help but stand tall and be proud anyway, smirking. "Yvonne, you said it yourself: I'm fit as hell. I could be wearing a potato sack, it wouldn't change a thing."

He winks at her, and she grins, rolling her eyes.

 

\--»

 

Grange St. Paul's Hotel is a modern building with an exceptional five-star rating. However, there's a hint of loud music from somewhere in the building that's ill-fitting of such an establishment.

Harry frowns, making his way to the reception.

"I'm here for Mr. Holmes."

"Give me a moment, sir." The receptionist taps on her keyboard and dials a number on the telephone.

Harry tries not to be impatient; He has a television to find furniture and accessories for.

"What's your name, sir?"

"Harry Hart."

She hands him a key-card and directions to the proper suite.

It's on the way to the lift that Harry sees the sign with an arrow: ' _Holland Park School Prom 2007!_ '

He refuses to acknowledge the sweeping sensation of dread. This has to be a coincidence.

 

»»

 

"Mr. Harry Hart," Mycroft greets magnanimously, gesturing around the space. "Take a seat, please."

Taking more than thirty seconds to do so is, in Harry's own way, rebellious, and he relishes the fact that Mycroft drops his smile and purses his lips instead, unimpressed.

"Is there a reason why we are meeting here and not HQ?"

"In all honesty? I'm not fond of HQ. I don't trust it either," Mycroft says, sitting on the armchair across from him.

Anthea comes in with a tray and sets it down the table between them. "Drinks, gentlemen?"

Harry declines politely.

"I'd like one," Mycroft declares.

Anthea only raises her eyebrows and gestures at the tray before pulling out her mobile and disappearing to some other room.

Mycroft sighs, pouring his own liquor. "Insolence."

"Please don't waste my time."

"Very well." Mycroft sips at his scotch, unable to hide the disgust on his face. "Arthur's long-term proposal. You refused."

"Ah, did he send you to strong-arm me into that one?" Harry tilts his head. "Odd. You never seemed the type to be at his beck and call."

"I'm not, I assure you." Mycroft smiles emptily at him. "However, I am here to convince you to take it."

"What part of that isn't being at his beck and call?" Harry dryly muses.

"I'm asking you to take that proposal, because there is no other candidate for this job."

Harry's interest is piqued. "This job?"

"There's no one else that Arthur wants badly to succeed his metaphorical throne, there's no one else that he can trust to succeed in the endeavour of his plans." Mycroft fishes for something in his inner coat pocket. "You are ruthless, unorthodox and..." He twists the wrapper off a sweet. "As far as he knows, alone."

Harry keeps his head held high. "I am not going away deep undercover for months and years for some aristocratic, political agenda."

Mycroft pops the sweet in his mouth. "And that's why you're perfect for this job."

Raising an eyebrow, Harry prompts him to explain.

"Galahad, you already know something is off with Kingsman. You've had your suspicions on inter-agency collaborations and the true origins of funding."

Harry keeps his face blank. The only reason Mycroft would know that is if Merlin or Arthur told him. Either that or he has been watched.

Mycroft continues, "You're a sad, lonely man, and you kill people as part of what you do for a living. You're very good at it, mind you. I doubt you lose much sleep at night because of it. What part of that isn't savage? But once you care about something you'd do anything for them. Wouldn't you, Galahad?"

The only reason why Harry keeps quiet for so long is that he considers the immediate consequences of pushing Mycroft Holmes through the tall, glass windows.

"Surely you care about _Kingsman_ , Harry?" Mycroft gives him a pathetic look that's clearly for show. "Move the tray, and you'll find only few of the files on Arthur and his associates."

 

\--»

 

Eggsy can't dance 'cos he may have eaten too much. But it's getting late in the evening that the songs are starting to mellow out, and couples are just--swaying against each other with these weird looks on their faces. And he can't exactly judge because he doesn't even want to know what he looked like when he danced with Harry yesterday.

"Where are you going?" Yvonne asks him, suspicious.

"Body heat, Yvonne. Too damn hot in here. I need some air."

 

\--»

 

Harry's movements are mechanical as he gets out of the room and makes his way down. The moment the lift opens, he hears a familiar feminine laughter echoing, but it takes a moment for him to figure it out. He's walking down the hall when the laughter escalates, and he doesn't quite know what drives him to peer over the corner, but it's what he does, and--

Yvonne Jansen laughs, melodic. "Come on, Gary. Be a good boy for me."

Harry stills.

Eggsy hisses at her, "I'm not holding your damn shoes. Oi!"

"But my feet hurt," She whines, pouting as she walks backwards in her black stockings. Yvonne suddenly smirks before disappearing into the door indicating _Female Toilets_.

"Oi, Jansen, you have to wear your shoes in there." He knocks, persistent, until he gives up, cursing, and sneaks in.

"Oh, my," Mycroft gasps behind Harry. It sounds mocking. "Such youth."

Harry turns to him, face blank.

_It's merely coincidence. That's all it is._

_That's all it is._

Mycroft raises an eyebrow. "Take the offer, Galahad. This is my second intervention. Sending Anthea after you was my first. I don't want to have to show you what I have in store for the third one."

There's an echoing sound of a door opening far behind.

 

\--

 

Bloody Jansen must be fucking mental. Or she could be just a fucking demon, Eggsy honestly can't tell. He just left her shoes outside some stall, hoping she gets some sense back into her.

Eggsy looks up and he just feels himself grinning at the sight of Harry, even though there's an odd, posh bloke talking quietly at him.

The grin on Eggsy's face dies the moment he sees the lady catch up with them. It's the same lady, the one Eggsy half-suspected was Harry's wife, professional and hot as fuck with the nice hair. She approaches Harry, giving him a small rectangular box. Which Harry takes, but really, it doesn't seem like he had any choice about it. He just looks...empty.

The odd, posh bloke meets Eggsy's eyes, and there's a little fucking smirk there that Eggsy wants to punch off his face. The man murmurs something to Harry, and Harry stills, face dangerously blank. Eggsy doesn't even realise that he's making his way closer to them until he hears the man's parting words.

"...Despite your best wishes, it really isn't a coincidence." He reaches a hand, beckoning the lady. "Goodbye. Until next time."

Eggsy bristles, feeling really angry for Harry as he watches the lady go with the posh bloke. Harry is so much better than him, she must be fucking out of her damn mind.

For a moment there is only silence, and Eggsy gently reaches to touch Harry's arm. Harry immediately flinches, turning back towards him and stepping back as if he's been burned.

Eggsy can't quite help feeling gutted at that reaction.

 

\--

 

"Go back," Harry finds himself saying, trying to ignore the hurt on Eggsy's face. "Go back with her."

"Fuck off," Eggsy spits, expression shutting down. "We're going home."

"Eggsy," Harry manages through gritted his teeth.

The sound of the door opening distracts them, and Harry immediately finds himself dragged by the hand to hide from Yvonne Jansen. It isn't long after that he's outside in the light rain, waiting as Eggsy hails them a cab home.

"Will you let go of my hand now?"

Eggsy shoots him a stubborn look. Harry sighs.

"Eggsy, you don't even have your coat."

"I'll text Ryan to get it."

"Eggsy."

"I'm tired, Harry. I'm tired and I need answers." Eggsy's grip tightens. "We're going home."

 

 

 


	19. 18

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 31k worth of NOTHING but fluff and domesticity.  
> -  
> Boring, extended stuff and conversations--that I'm setting up to kill you with next chapter, but it's technically still Christmas where I'm at as I post this, I'm trying to be nice.

 

 **I**  

 

 

Despite Eggsy's fiery insistence, he falls asleep in the cab halfway there, still holding Harry's hand. The boy did say he was tired after all. When Harry gently pulls away, he's met with some resistance before he succeeds. He lightly manoeuvres him so that Eggsy's leaning his head against Harry's shoulder, instead of having it bang against the window every other second.

Facing straight ahead, Harry quietly attempts to analyse what Mycroft _thinks_ he knows--but no matter what scenario comes to him, the whole process becomes derailed by the realisation that his priority will be Eggsy. And since when did it come to this? When was the particular moment that this boy started to become so important to him? How-- Eggsy huffs, inching in closer and making himself more comfortable, the cold tip of his nose occasionally bumping against Harry's neck.

Harry bites his tongue, inhales through his nose.

Answers, the boy had said. What answers does he need, what questions does he have? Are they the type that Harry can respond to truthfully?

"Eggsy," He says, too quiet. It shouldn't be a surprise that he gets nothing. Harry sighs, turning his head. His lips graze Eggsy's forehead when he murmurs, "Eggsy, we're nearly home. I need you to wake up for me."

Harry is about to unbuckle the sling on his arm when Eggsy starts to wake up, rubbing a hand on his face. He's clearly back to being mulish with his furrowed brows and pouting mouth. And it stays that way even when they're finally sat in the living room.

The stare fixed on Harry is intense, which is more befuddling than anything. What questions needing answers could warrant such severity?

"So," Eggsy begins. "Your wife. What's the story there?"

Harry almost chokes on his whisky.

Eggsy only keeps on staring. It _shouldn't_ be unnerving.

"Wife?" Harry questions, putting his whisky down. "This again. Where do you get such wild ideas?"

Narrowing his eyes, Eggsy continues to scrutinise Harry, slowly going on to suck in his lower lip, biting.

There's something terribly... _infuriating_ about it.

"So...you're telling me," Eggsy slowly ventures, "That pro-looking bird wasn't your wife and she wasn't leaving you for some other posh bloke?"

Harry stares back, trying to recall everything Eggsy has seen and figuring out how he has gotten to this conclusion. "Your imagination is a wonder, Eggsy."

There's a beat of silence and they manage to hold eye contact until Eggsy folds, body relaxing as he lets out a long exhale, putting both hands on his own face, hiding most of his expression. Still, Harry manages to detect embarrassment in addition to relief, and it's a rather odd reaction.

In fact, what is this conversation about? Why does Eggsy--

"So what the hell was that then? Espionage?" Eggsy blurts.

Harry feels himself sit up straighter. "Pardon?"

"All that drama earlier? Seemed tense and shite. Are you involved in something? Do tailors even have corporate espionage?" Eggsy rambles on.

"Corporate espionage," Harry repeats.

"I was getting that feel. That bloke--dodgy, him," Eggsy asserts, hackles seemingly rising at the mere thought of Mycroft. Good boy--Good instincts. Harry tamps down the surge of pride as Eggsy goes on, "But seriously, what? Did someone steal a suit pattern or something? That just don't make sense. Honestly, I thought you--well--" He starts mumbling and looking at everything but Harry. "You know what I thought. That you were married to her or something."

Harry sighs. It might have been easier going along with Eggsy's initial impression after all, but that ship's already sailed. He aims for evasion instead.

"Let's get this cleared out of the way. I am not a married man, Eggsy. Never have been."

"...But...?"

Harry doesn't know what he's fishing for.

"But what, Eggsy?"

"Well, I dunno. Just seems like there's a 'but' at the end of that sentence," Eggsy slightly narrows his eyes, "Surely you've had...someone. I mean, yeah, of course you--I mean, you're a posh gentleman wanker but you're h--you don't look bad. _Shit_ , I didn't mean--"

Harry doesn't even register the words fully, only watching his own hand as it reaches to settle against Eggsy's cheek. Eggsy stops talking immediately. Harry initially fails to speak for a moment, but he eventually manages, murmuring, "You're terribly warm."

Eggsy makes a small noise in the back of his throat, vaguely questioning.

"Did you watch yourself today? Are you certain that no one put something in your drink?" The mere thought of such an atrocity makes his hand twitch, but Eggsy only raises his eyebrows, leaning against Harry's palm almost absently.

Harry continues, watching him closely. And he doesn't know why his voice becoming more and more hushed as he continues on, "Your behaviour is strange. Your...temperature--"

Out of nowhere, Eggsy groans, and Harry would be worried if he was in pain, but the boy's rolling his eyes and pulling away. "Jesus fuck, Harry. If you say it's a fucking fever, I'm gonna quit."

Harry frowns, staring at his own hand that's fast becoming bereft of heat. "That was my second guess."

Eggsy groans again, scowling as he stands. "I'm going to bed. G'night."

Despite being baffled, Harry waves him off--until he realises something, "Wait. Eggsy. You need to go home."

The look that Eggsy shoots him with is daring. "Why?"

"...Your mother might be worried."

Eggsy huffs, rubbing at his face again, clearly tired. "She already thinks I'm having a shag tonight."

Ah, yes. There is that. There's a few seconds where Harry thinks it further through, searching for a genuine excuse to keep him away. It turns out that he doesn't have any. Not really.

So why does he feel uneasy?

Harry purses his lips, stalling as he tries to go over it again in his head. "You said you needed answers. What other questions did you have?"

Eggsy briefly looks embarrassed again before grimacing, "When were you gonna tell me about the telly? I was searching through coats. I saw it propped up behind everything else in the corner."

"Ah," Harry purses his lips again. "It wasn't...ready." The whole thing was meant to be a casual surprise. Harry reaches for his whisky.

Eggsy frowns. "What do you mean it ain't ready?"

"Furniture, accessories, and the like."

"Alright," Eggsy nods. Harry can tell there's something else he wants to talk about, but Eggsy only asks, "Can I go to bed now?"

Harry is halfway to putting the rim of the glass against his lips when he deadpans, "I don't know, can you?" Most of this day has been shit, but Harry still can't help but tease him about proper grammar. There's a certain thrill about ruffling his feathers every now and then.

Except.

Eggsy's reaction isn't one he expects. There's a bit of exasperation, yes, but he's biting his lip again before he exhales, " _May_ I please go to bed, Mr. Hart?"

Harry feels his hand clench around the glass of whisky. He briefly glances at it before scrutinising Eggsy up and down and back again. The gold pin on Eggsy's suit lapel catches his attention, and he finds that he has questions of his own. However, that would mean approaching the issue to begin with, admitting that it was Harry himself who gave him everything in that box. A box that Eggsy has kept all these years.

And that says something about Eggsy, how well he takes care of things. Most likely because he's never gotten much in the way of material possessions, and whatever he gets, he cherishes.

Harry settles for drinking his whisky instead. "Yes. Yes, you may."

Eggsy wordlessly leaves, and Harry belatedly calls out instructions to properly hang his suit before getting an insolent 'Yes, Harry' from above.

Ridiculous. How did it ever come to this?

He shouldn't need to worry. The school year is over for Eggsy and other than work, he would spend his time with his friends and...other people his age. As he should be.

The boy will probably be gone by morning.

The thought of it leaves an unpleasant sensation in his stomach. But then that could simply be the whisky.

 

\--»

 

In the morning, Eggsy takes a quick shower before heading for the kitchen. It's sort of a mistake considering he decides on bacon. He mourns for the state of his sweats considering the bacon smell will stay on anything for hours even though the vent is on. From the pan, the bacon also splatters hot oil everywhere, which is why he just has this general inclination to coax Harry to cook it for him. But it's arse o'clock and Eggsy needs some time to think anyway so that's fine.

He hates himself for folding in the last minute and not asking any more questions. But it's not like it was his fucking fault anyway, not completely. Eggsy just fucking goes blank when Harry touches him like that, alright? How is that his fault?

The point is, Harry's not married. And that's a victory of its own.

It would be suspicious and way too obvious to ask about Harry's personal life and relationships all at once. It would have to be something gradual.

Also, just 'cos Harry ain't married doesn't mean that he ain't attached. But considering that he spends most of his time at work or home or with Eggsy, the probability of that gets lower the more he thinks about it.

Except--Harry shouldn't be working any time soon with his right arm out of commission. So that means...

_Harry could sleep around if he wanted to._

And Eggsy can't just make sure he _doesn't_ twenty-four-seven without hanging around him like a fly, getting annoying and probably putting Harry off him for life.

What the fuck? Why can't he ever win?

Eggsy scowls at the bacon in the pan, failing at trying not to flinch every time hot oil crackles.

Also, there was the suit question. Like, is there any way he can phrase it without looking ungrateful? Why can't he just let it go? Well, he knows why, but still--

And another thing; School may be over, but work isn't.

If Harry ever asks, that'll be Eggsy's excuse for coming over. 'Cos he definitely will be doing that. As often as he can.

And see, it'll be a sort of a test.

Would Harry think it's weird? Would he even notice? Would he protest?

"Is the vent on?"

"Yeah," Eggsy answers absently before turning around, pleasantly surprised at the figure leaning against the entryway. "Harry."

"Eggsy," He falls a tiny bit short on being sardonic, but to be fair he looks like he just woke up and christ, Eggsy is so fucking _weak_. Harry's hair isn't as fucked up as Eggsy wants it to be, but he's wearing that red robe, and he just has that look on his face like he's mildly confused at the state of the world because he's slept for too long and--

"Sorry," Eggsy mumbles instead, "Did the smell wake you up?"

"Worry not," Harry assures him, holding his right arm close to his torso. "It's the best thing to wake up to."

_I can think of better ways to wake you up with._

Jesus. Involuntary thoughts are the worst. What the _fuck_.

"Eggs," He blurts out, finding refuge in the fridge, "How do you want them?"

"Eggs are eggs, I'll like them regardless."

At the non-answer, Eggsy rolls his eyes, taking the whole carton out. He senses Harry getting closer. "Pass me the bread please, I'll get started on toast."

Soon after, they're sat in the dining room, comfortable silence in between eating and mild conversation.

"I didn't think we had any bacon left," says Harry, topping up Eggsy's orange juice.

"Went for groceries yesterday afternoon."

"Ah." Harry nods, approving. It's so _simple_. Eggsy shouldn't feel like preening.

Harry clears his throat. "Correct me if I'm wrong, but is it not your day-off today?"

Eggsy tries not to give into the thought that Harry wants him gone for particular _reasons_. "Yeah."

"Any plans?"

"Not really. Why?"

"Would you like to accompany me in searching for television accessories?"

Eggsy stares at him. "Like at Argos?"

"More of the furniture variety than appliances. But maybe after."

Eggsy tries to picture Harry at Argos. It shouldn't be difficult since he's seen him at Tesco for hell's sake, but still. "Is it some posh furniture shop with antiques that are probably haunted?"

"Did you have something else in mind?"

 

»»

 

Eggsy is a terrible, terrible person. But to be fair he didn't think Harry would say yes. So it's not exactly his fault that now they're about seven miles away, outside the nearest Ikea they could get to.

He turns to Harry.

"You sure about this?"

Harry raises a sardonic eyebrow.

"I honestly don't know what the fuss is about."

Shaking his head, Eggsy bites his lip, trying not to burst into laughter. "We'll see."

They make their way in just as a mother pushes her trolley on out with their kid in it, but Eggsy can see the moment she falters in her walk, gaze lingering on Harry. Eggsy narrows his eyes at her, but she doesn't even notice. Christ. He immediately regrets badgering Harry into wearing a soft cardigan over a dress shirt and casual trousers instead of a suit. 'Cos yeah, okay, Harry's well _fit_ in a suit, but people would probably think he was just another posh wanker and move on with their day.

Now she's probably thinking about how to get rid of her own husband to make some space.

Eggsy hopes Harry doesn't notice when he sidles up closer to him, going for casual. "We don't need a trolley, do we? If we find something today, you can just get it delivered to the house."

"True--Regardless, humour me and get one, would you?" Harry says, far too innocently. Eggsy narrows his eyes but goes to do it anyway, also grabbing a map pamphlet, a tiny pencil, and a sheet of paper just in case.

"I still can't believe you've never been to Ikea." Eggsy shakes his head, disbelieving. It's hypocritical of him in a way, 'cos he's actually only ever been here once.

That's probably why they both end up staring at the store map pamphlet for way longer than necessary until a worker comes up to ask them if they need help. Which--first of all, that's just suspicious. This country is known for its shite customer service, that's just a fact. Second, this bloke-- _Mike_ , his name-tag reads--looks straight as fuck, so maybe Eggsy should calm down. But then again, Eggsy thought _he_ was completely straight so...

"It's fine, we've got it," Eggsy announces, head held high, staring right at him. And so what if Eggsy's shorter? Fuck him, that's what.

Eventually, they get to the proper area. It's almost unbelievable how they have a serious discussion about each model, going on for about fifteen minutes. But Eggsy's attention ultimately gets muddled. Not because it's boring, no. There's this woman, and she should have been done with her shopping considering that she was here long _before_ them. Eggsy can sense her flitting about, passing through his peripherals from time to time. Every time Eggsy thinks she's about to leave, she shows up again. Her kid's tugging at her jeans for them to leave already for fuck's sake.

"This is just getting ridiculous," Eggsy mutters.

Harry frowns. "To be fair, I was not expecting so many combinations of one TV bench model alone. Which one are you particularly partial to?"

"Wot?"

Harry raises an eyebrow, waiting.

Eggsy huffs, shoving his hands into his hoodie pocket. "I don't know, Harry, whatever you like."

"What about this? The colour scheme would go well with the living room, don't you think?"

"Colour scheme?" Eggsy balks, but he can't help the grin. "Are you kidding me? Have you seen your house? It's a mess, Harry."

There's a look of mild offence and Harry's pursing his lips, bloody hell--Eggsy laughs, shaking his head. He has to laugh or else he'll do something dumb like _croon_ at him.

"It's a cozy mess," Eggsy tells him, laughter tapering off, leaving him smiling still. "It's home."

Properly mollified, Harry gestures at a TV storage [combination](http://i.imgur.com/4WwUFqa.png) that would probably take a whole wall in the living room. "How about this one?"

Eggsy immediately backtracks. "Okay, calm down." He holds his hands up. "We don't wanna overdo it for your first time, yeah?"

"Pardon?"

"The assembly, Harry."

Harry pointedly glances down at his slinged arm. "Why on earth would _I_ be doing the assembly?"

"It wouldn't be just you--We'll do it together," Eggsy protests. Honestly, the fact that he'd think Eggsy would leave him to do it all alone, that's just offensive. "You can't just pay someone off for this, Harry. It's all about the experience."

Clearly, Harry is dubious.

Eggsy narrows his eyes right back, sucking in his cheeks, trying not to grin. He goes for innocence. "Unless...you can't handle it?"

Harry's eyebrows are a fucking delight, and his tone is completely cool when he replies, "Choose one and watch me _handle_ it, you cheeky little--"

Eggsy laughs, helpless.

They decide on a lesser extravagant [version](http://i.imgur.com/DUbZ5Gk.png) and Eggsy scribbles the serial number down on the sheet of paper.

Harry insists on moving on to some other parts of the store and Eggsy can only humour him, following him around and pushing the empty trolley.

Eggsy's not whipped or anything. And there's literally seven million people in London, even if he was seen following Harry around like a puppy, what are the chances of people they both know coming across them and seeing it? It's almost noon on a Sunday. Surely people have better things to do than make Eggsy's life miserable by pointing it out?

All in all, it ain't so bad. If anything it's been a while since he's been here and it's kind of nice, browsing around. There's a lot of stuff here that Eggsy would want at home. Someday, if he could afford it, he'd buy all sorts of stuff for his mum and the house Eggsy would get for her.

He's so deep in fantasising that he barely notices it when Harry puts something in the trolley until his brain finally registers what he's staring [at](http://i.imgur.com/QEkkjsG.png).

"Wha--"

"It's for your laundry adventures," says Harry, "So you can reach whatever you need to when I'm not around."

"Oi! Now who's being cheeky..." Eggsy mutters as they stroll along. He can't even be a tiny bit angry 'cos Harry can't hide this little smile at the corner of his mouth and Eggsy is a fucking loser. Christ.

With no warning, a legitimate shame settles deep within him; It washes over him from nowhere, the memories of Dean's stormy rants about poofs and faggots with the added derisive laughter from his goons. It's completely uncalled for, this delayed reaction after all this fucking time since he gave into this thing he has for Harry, but it hits Eggsy all of a sudden and it's never been a fucking problem before.

There's always talk like that even at school, but Dean's were to the extreme. And despite what shit spewed out Dean's mouth, Eggsy was always fine with those type of people, but he swore he was never gonna be one of them. It's stupid to let it affect him to begin with. Dean is absolute scum and his opinion should never have even mattered to Eggsy. But he was there for the past two years and fuck, he's not gonna have a breakdown in Ikea.

Harry's here. Harry's _here_ , and Dean's fucked up in a coma somewhere and Eggsy's mum ain't visiting him no more.

Eggsy swore he was never gonna be one of them, but Harry's the exception. So fuck that. No one's gonna keep him away from Harry.

With that thought, he tries to settle his racing heartbeat along with his laboured breaths.

Suddenly, Harry's hand is on his head. Fingers running down through Eggsy's short hair as he pulls away.

It's so quick. It's so simple. But Eggsy gets enough air in his lungs to hold it there and calm down. He's not even sure if he wasn't hallucinating it, because when he looks at Harry, he's busy still squinting his eyes, searching for something afar, frowning.

"Do they sell hardware materials in this store?" Harry asks.

"Probably not. Is that what you're looking for?" Eggsy mumbles, "What kind are you talking about?"

"Hmm, just some preventative measures for the torrential downpour."

Eggsy looks at him, dubious. "Shit, you think it's gonna flood in London?"

"It's better to be prepared than not."

He's mildly confused as to why Harry suddenly stops and Eggsy realises they're at the bedroom section. He can't even begin to wonder when Harry beckons him. "Come, Eggsy, feel this."

Eggsy manages to keep his hissing to a minimum.

 _I will not get a hard-on in Ikea. I will not get a hard-on in Ikea_ , he vehemently repeats to himself.

But Harry's feeling up a bedspread and Eggsy tries to live life, hesitantly placing a hand on the surface next to his, failing to keep away the fantasy of what would happen if Eggsy just inched closer and let their hands touch. Just a bit. Just a tiny bit.

Or maybe full on with fingers entwined, clenching against the sheets-- _Jesus fuck. I'm in public for fuck's sake, not now. You were literally about to have a breakdown like two seconds ago._

"Do you like it?" Harry asks.

"S'okay..." Eggsy answers quietly.

"There are plenty around, see which ones you find favourable."

"Why?"  ~~ _Are we gonna fuck on them?_~~ Eggsy bites his tongue.

"I doubt you've laundered the sheets you currently have. And I did say the blanket was inadequate. Perfect chance to get you new ones."

The idea of the Theory strikes him again, and Eggsy vaguely wonders what would happen if he complained about the bed in the guest room altogether.

"It's fine, Harry," he says instead. But Harry insists, going around to another bed with different layers of sheets to run his hand over--until he suddenly stops, mouth parting to form something like 'Oh', face going blank, doing that blinking thing he does.

Eggsy raises his eyebrows, approaching him slow. "What?"

"My apologies. Seems to have escaped me; School is over for you. There wouldn't be a need for you to come over."

There's a few seconds of silence that's way too much for Eggsy.

"Oi," He desperately powers through the dread and heaviness threatening to swallow him whole, "You ain't getting rid of me that easy, Harry."

Eggsy mutters on about work, turning away and quickly palming at the bedspread, "This, this ain't bad. Or whatever you choose, I'm not an expert. Buy me whatever."

They're words he ends up regretting considering Harry buys him a whole set and then some; For some reason Harry's noticed the plush toy [shark](http://i.imgur.com/rioiuWT.png) that Eggsy's been eyeing earlier and just puts it in the trolley on their way to the cashier. The shark's about forty inches in length, practically as long as Eggsy's torso if not [longer](http://i.imgur.com/zSmg3zg.jpg), and it's just fucking embarrassing having it stick out on the trolley like that, so he tries to sneakily put it back.

But then of course, the next time he looks, it's there again.

Despite the mortification, he can't find it in him to complain too much. But that don't mean he doesn't feel bad about the whole thing.

"Alright, this is me giving you a chance right now," Eggsy blurts out in a rush. They're in line, but they've still got time to back out. Harry only gives him a questioning look.

"This assembly's gonna be a pain, Harry, like...I mean it. We don't have to get furniture here, this is the first place we've been to. You can't just settle right away with--"

"Are you getting cold feet?" Harry questions, amused.

"N-no," Eggsy denies, appalled. Guilt ain't cold feet.

Harry hums. "You offered. I'm taking it."

And naturally, that's that.

 

\--

 

"Harry-- _fuckin'_ \--feed me."

It's amazing how the boy's reservation and uncharacteristic uncertainty disappears in a span of a second once they pass by the store restaurant. And that's a surprise in and of itself.

Harry stares at Eggsy who's practically bouncing at the feet.

"Twenty fucking meatballs and mashed potatoes for a fiver. _Harry_ ," Eggsy exhales with great feeling before turning to him with wide eyes, bright with excitement.

And so of course, Harry's left watching him shove meatball after meatball in his mouth, sitting across. Other than the initial awe, there's something gratifying about watching him eat. It's also disgusting, but he's seen him do this since he was, what, eleven, twelve? Has it really been that long?

"We're not in a hurry, slow down," Harry murmurs, setting the glass of water closer towards him.

Eggsy tries to speak but his mouth is literally way too full. He tries to chew and swallow as fast as he can.

Harry sighs, ignoring how terribly fond it sounds. "You are absolutely ridiculous. We just had breakfast four hours ago."

Eggsy takes a large gulp of water before shooting him an unimpressed look. "Yeah, four hours ago. I'm not used to shopping for this long in this big of a place. Never thought it could be this exhausting. I think you put me off shopping for life." He pointedly looks at the trolley beside them, full of bought items, the shark noticeably sticking out.

Harry frowns, musing out loud. "A young man of your physique, one would think you'd have the stamina."

"Jesus," Eggsy chokes. On what, Harry doesn't know, it's not as if he had something in his mouth. "Shut up and eat your beef prov--proven--"

"Provencale," Harry finishes for him, absently picking at his food.

"Yeah, that," He goes on to babble, "Is that even any good? You don't look too happy about it. Do you want to try some of mine, then? I have like nine more left."

Despite Harry's protests, Eggsy puts some on his plate. "Tsk. Sharing is caring, Haz."

Harry is simply too taken aback by it that he lets it happen.

"Go on, have a go," Eggsy urges. "I swear by it."

Harry clears his throat, "Thank you. You may have some of mine if you wish."

"Ah, me? Psh, nah."

Rolling his eyes, Harry reciprocates, trying not to be awkward about it. He's never done this in his life. The closest he's come near was a honeypot mission, and he wasn't too pleased about it. He was never one for sharing. But Eggsy--For some reason, Eggsy is the exception.

Eggsy, who huffs, smiling softly, and says, "Cheers, Haz."

Harry feels himself smiling back. "What do you think about dessert?"

 

»»

 

It's Monday and these are what follows in no particular order:

At least eighty-four people are killed due to car and truck bomb attacks in Kirkuk, Iraq.

An accused relative of the suspects in connection to the Glasgow Airport bombing and the London car bombs has been granted bail by a Queensland magistrate, and probably needs to be intercepted and subjected to long sessions of enhanced interrogation.

Already strained British-Russian relations due to Russia's denied extradition request of an ex-KGB charged with murder are further spurred on by the expulsion of four Russian diplomats from Britain; It's a mess for MI5 and MI6 to handle with their bureaucratic spy games.

At sixteen forty-one, Eggsy finally breaks his own highest score in solitaire on his mobile.

And Harry watches him stare at the device in shock and disbelief. Watches him grin, breathless and amazed. Watches him stand up from the sofa and rejoice in a crazed victory dance.

Blinking in stunned awe, Harry finds himself giving into smiling.

He takes the opportunity to suggest a celebratory night in with take-away for when Eggsy returns from work.

No one interrupts them this time around.

"Hey, Harry."

"Mmm?"

"Do I do anything that annoy you?" Eggsy asks casually over dinner.

Harry regards him carefully. "Not that I can think of at the moment, no."

Eggsy huffs. "Well, there's gotta be something. Bad habits and stuff."

"Why?"

"I just wanna know if there's something I can do better on."

There's always something about Eggsy's drive to improve that pleases Harry and makes him proud. It also concerns him, if he's being too hard on himself.

"Well," Harry stalls. "There is something..."

Eggsy straightens in his seat, waiting and attentive. "What?"

"You wait quite a bit to do laundry. Unless there's an emergency spillage, you let your clothes pile up, but it's not too bad of an issue," He assures in light of the embarrassment on Eggsy's face.

"I wait 'cos I don't wanna waste water. That's what normal people do. I can't just change into something and then do the laundry every time," Eggsy mumbles, trying to defend himself.

"Alright," Harry concedes. If anything, Harry's critique is hypocritical considering he always lets his own pile up before doing the laundry in HQ, and if he doesn't have the time, he buys new ones. But Eggsy doesn't know that. He clears his throat. "And for myself?"

"What?"

"Any bad habits that get on your nerves?"

Eggsy gapes at him.

"Go on, it's only fair," Harry gently urges.

"Er, well. It's not so much as it gets on my nerves--it just...sort of makes me uncomfortable, a bit?"

Harry stills. "What does?"

"No, it's just--when we do the dishes, you always let the water run first?"

"That's because I'm trying to get it warm, Eggsy," Harry explains slowly.

"Well, yeah, I get that," Eggsy nods, awkwardly pushing on, "But it's a waste of water. I mean, I get that you don't worry about it--Okay, nevermind. I know it sounds dumb, so you don't have to worry about it. I'm the one who usually washes the dishes anyway. I can take the cold, you know what I mean? I don't know, this is weird, I'm sorry."

They fall into silence.

"And that's it?" Harry questions.

Eggsy shrugs. "That's all I can think of. You?"

Harry shakes his head.

"Really? Nothing about my eating habits or anything?" Eggsy teases.

Harry chuckles. "I'm afraid I'm used to that."

There's a small genuine smile that Eggsy tries to hide, and Harry feels accomplished.

"If you think of anything more, you tell me, yeah?" Eggsy tells him, serious.

"And you." Harry nods.

"M'kay. Cool."

 

»»

 

On Tuesday:

A train carrying yellow phosphorus derails in western Ukraine, sending a toxic cloud over several villages. At least twenty people are hospitalised and hundreds are forced to evacuate.

Delegates arrive in Beijing for the resumption of six party talks on Wednesday involving North Korea, South Korea, China, Russia, Japan and the United States to discuss the second phase of a deal on North Korean nuclear disarmament. It's an important event that should be critically, closely monitored.

The news on the radio reports of several floods all over the UK, along with life-threatening mud slides, the shutting down of roads in addition to the closing down of schools and shops. The number of deaths are on the rise.

The sound of it fades in the background, along with the rain outside, the information absently registering in Harry's head.

Eggsy keeps worrying at his lip.

"What is it?" Harry asks, soft.

"Nothing," He flips and shuts his mobile on repeat, sitting on Harry's end of the sofa. Eggsy's long insisted they switch for the time being so long as Harry's arm remains in a sling. "Just wondering about Quinlan and Roxy."

"You've contacted them, I take it?"

"Yeah. They say they're fine. Berkshire's flooding, though."

Harry waits, stopping his mindless sketching on his notebook.

Eggsy tries to play it off as casual, rolling his eyes. "Just 'cos they're fine, it don't mean I don't worry."

"Would you like me to change the station?"

"Nah, I'll do it."

They get settled down again, but Harry can't quite concentrate, and he gives up, opting to watch Eggsy instead. "There's something else," Harry ventures, "What is it?"

Eggsy huffs. "What you said about preventative measures...Are we--is this--is the house gonna be okay, do you think? If worst comes to worst in London? I mean, not that I think it ever will, just--"

"I've got it handled," Harry assures him. "Among other things, I'll be having a mechanism installed on the door on Thursday. I have it scheduled."

"Oh. Okay. Cool," Eggsy exhales, seemingly relaxed. And that is indeed quite curious, it suddenly occurs to him.

"Aren't you worried for your own place?" Harry questions dryly.

"No." Eggsy scrunches his face. "My mum's flat is floors above ground level. It'll be fine."

Harry nods, trying to get used to the idea that Eggsy might actually worry about him.

It must be quite odd for a man of his age, not to mention a man of his _profession_ , to be charmed by that.

 

\--»

 

Eggsy gets back from work to find that Harry has something going on in the kitchen.

"What's this?" He questions, covering up his glee by trying to be authoritative, "Harry, your arm--"

"I'm merely reheating something in the oven. No need to fuss."

Eggsy lets himself grin despite rolling his eyes. "I'll set the table. Nothing fancy, yeah?"

Soon they're sat and eating with Harry asking him about his two hours at work. It's the usual, but there's something about it that prompts him to be brave.

"You know, all I do is talk about myself," Eggsy starts. He feels like he's setting himself up for failure but he has to do it or it'll always be like this. Not that there's anything wrong with that. Being with Harry, spending time with him, it's...comfortable and satisfying. But Eggsy has to know if he has a chance of having more.

"What's wrong with that?" Harry asks.

"I just think we're past the polite conversations, don't you think?" Eggsy cajoles. "Don't you get tired of me talking all the time? What about you? What do you have to say? How was _your_ day?"

Damn, he might have just laid it on a bit thick there.

"You know how my day was, Eggsy, you were there for the most of it," Harry tells him, wry, like Eggsy's daft or something.

"Yeah, okay, but what about when I wasn't here? When I'm not around?"

Harry stops, brows furrowing in confusion. "What do you mean? I was here. Working on reports in my office. I took a shower. Did some tidying up. Had an interesting conversation with Mr. Pickle about the state of British politics."

Eggsy snorts. That's fucked up, he knows, but it's even more fucked up how he finds it fucking _precious_. "And that's it? That's all you did? That's all you do if you're not at work?"

"More or less."

"Well, that's kinda boring, Haz," Eggsy sniffs. "If it's true, that is."

_If it is, I must be the fucking light of your life._

"It's true," Harry assures him. "And when I ask about your day..." He trails off like he doesn't even know what's about to come out of his own mouth. Harry frowns, starting again. "When I ask about your day, it's not merely about politeness. I ask you about your day because...I genuinely want to know."

His brows furrow again, and despite feeling bad about probably pushing Harry out of his comfort zone, Eggsy barrels on, "You know everything about me, Harry."

_Well, not everything--You oblivious fuck._

He continues on, careful to keep it light, "You know everything about me, and I don't really know much about you."

That's also a lie, in a way.

Eggsy knows what Harry's like in the morning, knows that somehow, after Eggsy mentioned that he doesn't like coffee and the smell of it, Harry drinks only tea, water, or juice, preferring apple to orange--knows that he likes scrambled eggs on fucking _buttered_ toast, 'cos he's weird as fuck. Along with the fact that he uses a clean toothbrush to keep Mr. Pickle clean--Again, 'cos he's weird as fuck.

And every now and then, Harry has this odd, absent-minded habit of running his thumb against his left wrist, under the watch, mostly accompanied with this pensive look on his face. Even with his right arm injured and in a sling, he still manages to do it.

Eggsy knows Harry not only takes pride in his clothes and mannerisms but also in his weird house and his witty dramatic one-liner life-lessons. He knows what he's like when he comes home from work, exhausted, but still goes on to his office upstairs to work some more, and back downstairs not long after, somehow insisting on spending time with Eggsy on the sofa, sometimes dozing off.

Harry frowns. "I don't have much to say about myself. There's not much to know. My life has always revolved around my work." He goes back to his chicken alfredo.

Eggsy props an elbow against the table and leans his face against his own hand, watching him curiously. "Revolved."

"Mmm? Yes."

"What else then?"

"There's not much else."

"Yeah, I get that but--revolved."

Harry looks at him, amused. "That's what I said."

"Yes, Harry. Revolve ** _d_**. Past tense, innit?" Eggsy points out, unsure. He's four days out of school and he's already blanking out on whether or not it is. Harry could have said ' _my life revolves around my work_ ', or ' _my life always revolves around my work_ ', but maybe Eggsy's just being nit-picky. He watches Harry stop, doing that blinking thing he does that either gets on Eggsy's nerves or makes Eggsy wonder how repressed he actually is.

Harry frowns, then gestures at his slinged right arm. "I can't exactly be at work full-time at the moment."

Eggsy purses his lips and spears a pasta with his fork. "Yeah. My condolences, guv."

They finish up and do the dishes in silence. It's not quite as comfortable as it should be, and he's totally fine with ignoring it, but Harry sighs.

"What do you want to know?"

Taken aback, Eggsy stares at him, wide-eyed.

There's a tension to Harry, barely there. But Eggsy notices. And he knows he's been given a chance. If he wants any more of it, he has to take it slow. He has to be delicate about this. One thing that would definitely shut Harry down is if he asks any specifics about his work, so that's a definite no.

The possibilities are endless; The suit question--' _How much is it, really? And how bonkers are you to spend all that money just 'cos?_ '. The key under the mat--' _Do you have any idea how dangerous that is? Why would you do that? You're not stupid'_. The gifts from the IWM--' _How the fuck did you pull that off and why?_ '.

These are selfish questions, somehow involving Eggsy one way or another. So of course he doesn't ask them. He wants to know _Harry_ , what he's like without Eggsy, in any point of time or circumstance.

"Eton," Eggsy finds himself saying, trying to contain how fucking chuffed he is at this opportunity. "You never did tell me how you got kicked out.

He can feel the weight of Harry's gaze on him.

"You remember that?"

"Yeah? Psh--" Why is that a big deal, like, what?

"That was a long time ago."

"No, that was like, two years ago," He blurts in defence. "Unless you were lying and that's why you won't gimme a straight answer."

Harry huffs. "No, I was not lying. They found a girl in my room."

Eggsy almost drops the fucking plate into a thousand pieces.

"Wot."

"Well, it wasn't my room alone, but she was on my bed. I was about fifteen, sixteen? Your age."

_That ain't what I'm fucking 'wot'-ing about, guv. That ain't what I fucking meant when I asked for a straight answer._

Eggsy needs to look at him, to observe his expression and shit, but he can't, he can't fucking do it--Jesus. He just stares down at the plate before scrubbing vigorously. "Hope she was fucking worth it."

Harry hums, non-committal.

What the fuck? And here Eggsy thought, like the rest of the world, that Eton was the primary breeding ground for posh repressed poofters. The one time he needed a stereotype to be on point--Christ.

"Well, go on," Eggsy urges despite the despair, acting like a proper bruv, needing some juicy details.

"Go on, what?" Harry questions, drying a plate one-handed like a fucking pro.

"Tell me how you got her there. Probably was easy for you, wasn't it? Were you still a posh charming _git_ even back then? Go on, tell me."

_'Cos I'm a fucking masochist, apparently._

Suddenly, Harry's hand is on his, stopping his furious movements. "Settle. There's no Olympic category for dish washing."

Eggsy stills, trying to calm his breathing. Harry's fingers gently pries Eggsy's petulant grip on the iron wire sponge. At the sight of Eggsy's red tender palm, Harry tuts, "Look at what you've done."

Harry lightly pulls his hand to run it under the water and inspect it, fingers tracing against Eggsy's skin. The shudder that runs through Eggsy could easily be passed off to the raw hypersensitivity.

And despite this whole disaster, Eggsy thinks, he'll have to find ways to get Harry to hold his hand again.

 

\--»»

 

Early morning on Wednesday, Harry wakes up to the smell of bacon. Again.

As wonderful as that is, he briefly considers staying in his cold bed. However, doing that bout of self-flagellation wouldn't make the problems disappear. It's dangerous, procrastinating on the inevitable problem that is Mycroft Holmes.

Harry has to make a decision soon.

He has never been one to be cornered. Many people have tried and most of them have suffered for it.

The difference now is that Eggsy is being used as some pawn in this preposterous attempt at a gradual coup-de-état. Considering this problem largely involves Arthur's ambitious associates and political interests, Harry wouldn't put it past Mycroft to break the law and endanger a civilian just to have his way.

Needless to say, this is Harry's fault. Somehow, Mycroft knows about his attachment with the Unwins. Harry's not quite certain to what degree he knows this, what specifics he's been privy to. But the truth stands; Harry wasn't careful enough.

And as much as he doesn't want to admit it, the only person that can help him with this mess is Merlin.

Approaching him would mean that Harry would have to own up to what he's been doing these past few months. And it's not as if he's done something wrong. He's never intended for it to turn out this way. He merely wanted to help in any way that he could.

If it all simply happened to end up with Eggsy making himself at home in Harry's house, well--what's the harm in that?

Barring the fact that it got Mycroft's attention to begin with.

But again, Harry doesn't know just how well-informed Mycroft is on the entire situation. He could have merely seen him and Michelle having a conversation, and connected the dots to Lee Unwin.

Harry sighs and goes to put his robe on, taking the time to comb his hair and brush his teeth.

The table is already set when he gets down to the dining room.

"Morning, Haz," Eggsy grins at him from the kitchen. "Got you the newspaper from the tube."

"Thank you," He manages in short of staring. This is quite surreal, this whole scenario. And yet somehow it manages to be bizarrely natural.

Harry shouldn't get used to it.

He clears his throat. "It's eight in the morning, Eggsy. What are you doing here so early?"

Eggsy turns back to his cooking. "I took a morning run. Guess I ended up here."

After mentally double-checking that yes, they do indeed live about four to five miles apart, Harry frowns down at the newspaper. "...But you took the tube."

"Yeah."

There's nothing more to that answer considering Harry waits for a few seconds with no further follow up. He tries again. "Is there anything I can help you with?"

"Nah, just sit back. I'm just finishing up here."

That's not exactly what Harry was referring to, but he concedes and takes the time to read the newspaper. It isn't long when Eggsy comes over with the food.

"I'm gonna be out with my mates later," Eggsy informs him, setting the plates down.

"Oh," Harry finds himself pulling up the newspaper closer to his face, as best as he can with only one arm, "That's good."

That's good indeed. It's exactly what Eggsy should be doing with his spare time during the summer holidays. Enjoying himself with his friends and people his age. Not--

"Harry."

"Hmm."

There's a few moments of silence, and Harry gives in to lowering the newspaper to find Eggsy staring at him intently.

"I'm not leaving until we get it done, you and me," Eggsy swears, determined.

Harry's mind goes blank. "...Pardon?"

Eggsy raises his eyebrows. "The Ikea shipment," He tells him, slow, as if he's concerned for his mental health. "It comes in today."

"Ah, right. Of course," He clears his throat. "No need for that, Eggsy. Spend time with your friends. It's the summer holidays."

Eggsy rolls his eyes but his tone is firm. "We're doing this together. That's final. Now, apple juice or tea?"

"...tea?"

Eggsy winks. "Gotcha, Haz."

 

\--»

 

The thing is, Eggsy's actually surprised when Harry hands him a box of tools and they don't look unused. And while Harry goes upstairs to change, Eggsy entertains the fantasy of Harry being handy around the house, fixing things and all that good shit. Which is probably too good to be true. No one's that perfect. There's gotta be a downside to him. Part of getting into this Ikea project was to figure it out.

Eggsy briefly gets distracted when Harry comes down in a cardigan and some plain trousers. It's nothing new, he should be used to it by now. Doesn't mean he ever gets fucking tired of it though, goddamn.

The two of them spend a good amount of time making some space around the wall they're gonna set the TV bench on. And they're almost done by the moment someone's at the door. Eggsy absently makes his way there when Harry immediately blocks him with his good arm.

"I'll take it," says Harry, expression way too serious for Eggsy's taste. And he can't possibly think why. It's just some Ikea guy--- _Unless_ , Eggsy feels his hackles rise, it's that _Mike_ bloke from Ikea.

It dawns on him how ridiculous he's being and shakes the thoughts away.

He waits until he hears the door close, and he goes over to get one of the biggest boxes, hauling it to the living room. And okay, that shit's either really heavy or Eggsy's been falling behind on his exercise routines. It could be both. Can you blame him though? He's been a bit preoccupied lately.

Still, eager to impress, he quickly returns to the foyer to grab the other ones.

"Careful," Harry admonishes.

Once they're all there, Eggsy stares down at the boxes on the floor, hands on his hips. "Which one you wanna start with?"

"I suggest we work our way down."

"Exactly what I was thinking."

Having finished with opening the biggest box, Eggsy blindly hands over the instructions to Harry and separates the screws before sorting out the furniture pieces by likeness.

"...Eggsy..."

"Yeah?" He looks over his shoulder to find Harry staring at the instructions in suspicion. "What is it?"

Pursing his lips, Harry wordlessly hands it back to him. And when Eggsy flips through it he starts to realise what the problem is. Despite the six pages of international warnings, the rest of the whole thing doesn't have words.

"Huh."

"What kind of instruction manual doesn't have instructions?" Harry questions in mild indignation.

Eggsy mutters. "This must be why it's called Satan's favourite hobby."

"What?"

"...At least it has pictures?" Eggsy offers weakly before raising his eyebrows. "Unless you can't handle it?"

Harry narrows his eyes. "Don't be preposterous. I've done things with far less instructions."

Eggsy huffs. Okay, he can see how Harry might have taken that as a challenge.

"Harry, swear down, I'm being serious right now."

He gets a quizzical look.

Sighing, Eggsy gestures to the sofa. "Let me sit you down for this conversation, yeah?"

Harry rolls his eyes but goes to do it anyway. Eggsy stays on the floor, resting his elbows on his knees. "Look, there's a reason why I offered you an out before. You called it cold-feet, and yeah, I can see now maybe it was. 'Cos this? It's gonna be a right mess, Harry."

"This whole conversation is very odd," Harry notes, vaguely amused.

"Yeah, but it has to be done," Eggsy insists. "You and me, if we go through with this, we're probably gonna see each other at our worst. This could ruin us for life."

He suddenly remembers that time when Harry came home, surly and short, only to leave after a few minutes. And he inwardly starts to panic 'cos this is gonna be so much worse than that.

Eggsy keeps his face straight as Harry observes him. "I'm serious, I tell you. Relationships have been tested through this, Harry. And for most of them, apparently Ikea was their limit. People have gotten divorced because of this."

Harry frowns. "You genuinely believe this."

"Swear down, it's true. The first _and_ last time I did an Ikea assembly was with me mum and she threatened to put me up for adoption, and then we both cried and said sorry after a few days of nothing," Eggsy reveals, hushed, and Harry's face is pure disbelief.

Eggsy nods. "Mhm, yeah, true story, dark times--So I'm giving you another out. I can put everything back in the box, no hard feelings. We can call someone for this, have it set it up in a few days."

They spend a moment just staring at each other, and Eggsy doesn't even know which outcome he's hoping for.

"Eggsy..."

"Yeah?" He prompts, slightly short of breath.

"Ikea will not tear us apart."

 

»

 

Eggsy remains earnest. "If at any point you want to stop--Oi, don't roll your eyes at me, Harry Hart, I swear--If at any point you wanna stop, you tell me, alright? Just say the word. We stop."

The first hour is civil. Despite the initial errors and blunders, they power through. Every time they did something wrong, they just broached the topic gently.

Eggsy manages to ignore how expertly Harry uses the tools with one hand alone. How he just screws it in just like that--

Well. Mostly manages.

Within the second hour, Harry takes his cardigan off. Needless to say, Eggsy is a fucking idiot. He gets distracted. Distraction leads to mistakes. Mistakes leads to Harry either huffing or sighing. Huffing or sighing leads to them fucking pecs against that damned, crisp white shirt---

"Eggsy," Harry chides, unbuttoning the first top button, revealing for the first time the space between his collarbones.

Eggsy lets the desperate noise die in his throat.

The third hour--

" _Nah_ , guv--"

"What are you on about?"

"Oh my god, it's fucking backwards."

Eggsy takes off his hoodie in frustration.

In the fourth hour, they should really have taken a much longer break than five minutes, but Harry insisted, claiming that the sooner they get done, the sooner Eggsy can leave and go with his friends.

Which fucking---First of all, what the fuck does that even mean? Does Harry want him to leave? What the fucking fuck--

"Wrong hole," Harry says.

"No, it ain't."

Harry is calm. "Yes it is, Eggsy."

Too calm.

"There's only one fucking hole, how can it be--"

By the fifth hour, Eggsy wants to fucking die. But he's not gonna die alone.

"I'm gonna kill you," he tells Harry mildly.

Harry retorts under his breath, distracted, "I would love to see you try, you little shit."

Eggsy laughs, breathless and harsh, torn between sheer frustration and arousal 'cos _fuck_ \--Harry just cursed. And Harry rarely fucking curses, at least with Eggsy. Ever. And so of course, Eggsy's stupid brain can't help but think of a different kind of situation that would drive Harry to madness, spitting curses right after another. The things Eggsy could fucking do to get him worked up and _desperate_ \--

Eggsy puts a hand over his face.

He quietly takes a long deep breath, but he fails halfway through, breath hitching.

"Eggsy?" Harry cautiously tries.

"--M'not fuckin' cryin'."

"I didn't say you were--I mean, are you--"

"Just fuckin' kill me, and _then_ kill yourself. Let's die together," Eggsy bursts out in mad frustration, rubbing his arm over his eyelids until the skin fucking burns.

A light touch on his arm halts his movement, but Eggsy keeps his eyes covered.

"Do you wish to stop?"

The worst part is that it's not even remotely patronising.

"Ugh," Moving his arm away, Eggsy mindlessly catches hold of Harry's hand. "Fuck no. We got this. We got this."

"...Are you telling me, or are you telling yourself?"

"I'm telling me. I'm telling you." His grip tightens. "I'm telling _us_ : We got this."

Getting a brief pressure on his hand in response, Eggsy lets him go, standing to jump around the living room to do jumping jacks, muttering, "We got this, we got this..."

After a few seconds, he's successfully re-energised, and he comes back to find Harry's face contorted from reigned in laughter.

"Oi, go on, why don't _you_ have a go?"

Harry sniffs, dignified, "I'm down one arm."

 _Bullshit_. _Precious bullshit_.

 

»

 

They get that shit fucking _done_ , and they immediately go to the kitchen to celebrate and eat everything they can. Or that could be just Eggsy. Harry's more dignified, obviously, despite the slightly rumpled state of his cardigan. He sips tea after tea, currently on his third refill.

As it is, Eggsy's just half-draped against the dining table surface, shoving jaffa cakes into his fucking mouth.

"You are a heathen."

Eggsy gives up in speaking with his mouth full and only points at him warningly. Harry pushes the pack of jaffa cakes closer to him.

And bloody hell, Eggsy just can't help but wonder if this is what Harry looks like post-fuck: Pleased satisfaction on his face, barely noticeable sheen of sweat already drying on his skin. And his hair-- _fuck_ , his hair. It was so well-combed this morning, Eggsy was disappointed at the sight of it. But now Eggsy knows that it's better to see it getting ruined in the process.

Closing his eyes, he covers his head with both arms, groaning.

It's not long until he hears Harry get up, along with the water running from the sink.

Eggsy grunts. It's beyond him why Harry doesn't just leave things like the dishes for Eggsy to do in the meantime that he has his arm in a sling. It ain't like Eggsy would even offer to do everything if it wasn't. He should take advantage of the situation.

"Have fun with your friends," Harry calls out.

Scowling, Eggsy moves his arms, and from here, he has a direct view of the kitchen and Harry who has his back turned. "Had enough of me for one day, have you?"

It's quiet, barely noticeable, the way Harry absently murmurs, "Hmm. Not really."

And Eggsy--Eggsy is _helpless_ , feeling himself go all soft and warm and shit like a fucking loser. It adds to the day's exhaustion and the laziness he's getting from eating too much too fast. So yeah, he's a bit out of it when he decides to just keep on watching Harry, because apparently Eggsy's just...so far gone it's unbelievable.

Actually, putting it that way-- _'decides'_ \--makes it sound like he has a choice about it.

But on second thought, maybe he does. Except Eggsy doesn't _feel_ that way, and he definitely doesn't have the have energy or the brain power to will himself otherwise. It shouldn't be so fucking mesmerising, just staring at Harry's back. But Harry's fucking _shoulders_.

He realises it now. There's a bit of padding when Harry wears his suit, it makes him look sharp and clean, but that's not what makes his shoulders look wide. It just fucking is.

Or is it?

Silently, Eggsy peels himself off from the table, gets up from his seat. He's only half-aware of himself as he make his way towards him, slow.

Maybe it's just Harry's waist.

But then it's not as if Harry's waist is _narrow_.

...Is it?

His breath is shallow as he watches his own hands come up near the sides of Harry's waist.

Eggsy watches them settle, and he watches as they slowly go around to where he can't see them anymore.

Closing his eyes, Eggsy leans his forehead against the back of Harry's neck, breathing in. The scent of him muddles Eggsy some more, makes everything--makes his _senses_ \--go a bit blurry. Blocking out anything that _isn't_ Harry.

But even in his current state, he's not so far gone to _not_ notice how Harry stops in his movements, gradually going still.

Shit.

"...Eggsy?"

_Shitshitshit._

The water turns off.

_Fuck._

His hands clutch at Harry's cardigan from the front.

"M'sorry," Eggsy manages not to sound too fucking wrecked, his racing pulse _pounding_. "I'm deprived. I--" Eggsy breathes, shaky, and he panics, the filthy lies leaves his mouth, murmured against Harry's spine in a rush, "I'm an only child with one parent who doesn't have the time 'cos she's always worked two to three jobs, and I'm deprived--" He swallows, prying his fingers off Harry's cardigan. "M'sorry--shit, it's been a long day--" They’re not exactly lies, but he realises what he's doing. Fuck, _he's guilting Harry_. And he's not even making good sense of it. Eggsy pulls his hands back in undeniable shame.

The moment he does, Harry turns, and Eggsy immediately steps back, head hung down in burning humiliation.

He's stopped from taking another step with Harry's hand on his shirt.

"Come," says Harry, and Eggsy dies some more, a questioning noise in his throat because he can't fucking speak.

There's a light tug on his shirt before Harry's hand goes up to cradle the side of his face, the cold tips of his fingers sliding against his hair, the trail of it leaving Eggsy on fire. He shudders, losing his breath.

"Come," says Harry again, and Eggsy gives in to gravitate towards him, desperately thinking, ' _Don't say it like that. Don't say it like that. Fuck--_ '

Eggsy presses his face against the crook of Harry's neck. Every inhale is infused with Harry's scent. And he finally figures it out, why he could never exactly replicate the smell of Harry, even with the soap and the cologne. The missing ingredient was _Harry_ _himself_.

"Jesus fucking Christ," he croaks in mortification, slightly muffled with his mouth moving against cloth, so fucking close to Harry's open collar. If he just shifts a bit, a tiny fucking bit, Eggsy's mouth would be on Harry's skin.

Eggsy tries to choke back a whine, huffing instead, "M'sorry, m'sorry."

Harry shushes him, hand cradling the back of Eggsy's head. "You were right," he says softly against Eggsy's hair, "It's been a long day."

Eggsy nods without too much movement, face still pressed against Harry as he slowly braves wrapping his arms around him, careful of the sling.

"But we made it," Harry continues, "And you did so well." His words cause a wave of goosebumps on Eggsy's skin. "You did so well, darling boy," He murmurs, petting Eggsy's hair, fucking oblivious.

Eggsy bites his lip, hard, and just clutches at his cardigan as the slight tremors overtake him. He may be fucking doped up on Harry Hart, but he's not so fucking stupid that he doesn't remember to keep a space between them below the belt.

 

»»

 

The cold air of London in the evening is a refreshing thing, helping Eggsy put his mind off what just happened. Don't get him wrong, that shit was fucking great, ten out of ten, would do again for the rest of his life.

But remembering it is just fucking embarrassing as hell.

And Harry probably felt bad for him, that's all it was. Pity.

Sitting down, Eggsy frowns at his updated Theory page and habitually clicks on his multi-coloured pen.

A lot of things has happened since the last time, but Eggsy needs to differentiate which instances and tests were actually valid. Like the thing with the telly. It was bound to happen, that. Maybe Harry was just on the fence about it this whole time. Needed a little push. He didn't buy it because of Eggsy primarily.

Right?

And the Ikea thing. Harry just probably needed some stuff for the guest room in general. It was just easier to let Eggsy pick considering he's the one who's gonna use it for---okay, that's a bit...maybe. Eggsy's borderline on that one.

_What else? What else?_

"Oi!" Ryan calls out, embarrassingly loud in McDonald's. "Thought you were gonna cancel out on us."

Jamal rolls his eyes. "And you should've too. It's pouring like hell."

Eggsy would have. It was fucking tempting. But he's a fucking champ. And he doesn't want to be that guy who's so distracted by his love life that everything else fades away.

...Except apparently he's totally that guy, but he's fucking trying, okay?

Not that he has a love life. Not really.

He puts the Theory paper safe in his pocket.

There has to be a final test that's clear cut, something that Eggsy can't rationalise as something else, something that Eggsy can't doubt.

Then maybe, just maybe, he can figure out what to do next.

 

\--»

 

Michelle squints at her teacup and confesses.

"He hasn't told me anything."

"About what?" Harry asks.

"You know," She tells him, almost conspiratorial. "About prom night."

Harry blinks at her.

She huffs, frustrated. "That boy didn't come home, not until the next day, the next _evening_."

Ah. Right.

He can't exactly tell her that Eggsy was with him the whole night and the whole day. As far as he knows, Eggsy hasn't told Michelle anything about their...arrangement, considering she's never brought it up. There must be a reason why Eggsy keeps it that way, and Harry's not about to sabotage him.

"Well, maybe he stayed over at a friend's place," he suggests, neutral.

Michelle scoffs. "Do you remember being a teenager? Being so horny all the time you couldn't think straight?"

Harry considers it.

"...No."

She looks at him strangely, noisily crunching down on a biscuit. And Harry acknowledges that just because he didn't have such experiences, doesn't mean it isn't true for others. For Eggsy.

There's a reason why desperate teenagers are a cliché after all.

He frowns.

Michelle wipes the crusts off her hand. " _Anyway_ , I don't think he'd just pass it up. Prom's the perfect opportunity, innit? That's what kids wait for."

Something about this whole conversation makes him uncomfortable, but at least they're not talking about Dean anymore. She's definitely made progress on that front. Michelle is clearly getting over him.

Harry only hums in response, non-committal.

"There's something going on, I swear it," She maintains.

"Why?"

"He hasn't been home these past few days."

"How do you know?" Harry looks at her curiously, remembering what Eggsy said about being deprived of time and physical attention. "You're either at work or doing your bouts of job hunting."

She sniffs. "The house is barely lived in, I can tell. A mum knows these things, Hart."

It would be undignified to roll his eyes in front of her, so he refrains--Being back in his suit helps. However, Michelle's clearly fired up, insistent. "When he's at home, he always checks that mobile of his. And sometimes he gets this dumb look on his face. Other times, he scowls 'cos there's nothing there."

Harry narrows his eyes. Despite all logic, he hopes it's not Yvonne Jansen.

Maybe it's someone from the bookshop. Clara, her name was. She seems like a sweet girl.

Harry purses his lips.

Michelle eventually sighs. "...But nothing turns up with his mobile."

Harry stills. "Pardon?"

"His mobile, I don't know how he does it, but it has a password of some sort. I can't get in."

Good.

Good boy. Clever.

Harry tries to be as civil as he can. "Michelle, you do know that privacy is an important aspect to an individual, especially to a teenage boy?"

"Yeah."

He raises his eyebrows, and she huffs, crossing her arms. "I'm just anxious. When's he gonna take her home to meet me? I need to know if he's in good hands, if she's gonna break his heart. And I wouldn't be as annoying as I'm being if I thought it was just a typical teenage fumble and a shag. There's something to it, I know, 'cos the look on his face--"

The vibration of Harry's mobile stops her, but Harry motions for her to continue, quite curious himself despite the discomfort.

She rolls her eyes. "Go on, take it."

"It's merely a text message," He says, palming his mobile in his trousers anyway.

"It could be the missus," She threatens.

Harry takes his mobile out, muttering. "I'm not a married man."

Where does everyone keep getting this idea?

He opens the message to find a photo of a garish piece of clothing, a zipped jacket swathed in a mess of yellow and black. A familiar hand points at it.

 

**18\. 07. 2007 - Excalibur:**

_It's hideous, I want it D: <_

 

Ridiculous boy.

He tries to fight the smile pulling at the corner of his mouth, adopting a stern demeanour as if Eggsy can actually see him when he types his reply.

 

_'Whatever that is, it's an abomination and an atrocity to the gift of sight. Whoever buys it commits the greatest crime against humanity.'_

 

Harry flips his mobile closed to find Michelle already pointing at him.

"There," She says, serious, "That's the look."

Brows furrowing in confusion, Harry asks, "What look?"

"The look! On Eggsy's face--it's the same!...Sort of."

Harry frowns, ready to broach the subject.

"If I may make a suggestion?"

Michelle looks at him suspiciously. "Yeah, alright. Just a suggestion."

"Maybe it's time to venture out and go on dates. That way you don't have to live vicariously through your son's life."

She scowls. "I'd throw you out if you weren't footing the bill."

Harry huffs. "It was worth a try. Merely something to think about."

 

»»

 

There's no rain when Harry finds himself awake at half past five in the morning. Feeling restless, he knows his body misses the exertion that missions give him. Therefore, Harry changes into his sweats and goes for a run in varying stages of intensity. He takes the time to contemplate all the issues he has to deal with.

An option would be to veer attention off himself. One of the reasons why Arthur chose Harry for the long-term proposal was due to his sudden exemplary show of 'efficiency'. Harry can lower his pride and fall back in performance if it means it'll drive Arthur to consider someone else for his crusade, thus rendering the whole situation with Mycroft unnecessary. Any threats to Eggsy would reflect badly on Mycroft then.

In fact, it already does. Harry's certain that if he confides in Merlin, the outrage would be similar. That is, after Merlin gets past berating him for getting into this situation in the first place.

Harry tries not to wonder where Eggsy is and what his plans are for the day. He tries not to worry about him. Harry doesn't trust Mycroft one bit, but he knows he wouldn't harm Eggsy. It's too soon. That would immediately put Harry in a different course of action altogether. That's a given. Mycroft is the type to hang something over your head, let you stew in it until you disintegrate into madness. He's not the type to get his hands dirty.

And he won't get to.

Harry will tell Merlin, he decides. He has an appointment with medical tomorrow. He'll tell him then. He'll take whatever insults that'll come his way if it keeps Eggsy safe.

The air is cold, but Harry burns with exertion. Glancing at his watch, he realises he's been at it for almost two and a half hours.

Slowing down as he makes his way back only lets the biting chill worsen, but his house is a sanctuary of warmth on arrival. And he finds Eggsy in sweats of his own, laid back on the sofa, frowning at his snow-globe in deep consternation.

"You're home," Harry says needlessly.

"Yeah." Eggsy refuses to look at him even as Harry goes to the kitchen for some water.

Walking back, he finally figures out what’s been nagging at him. "Did you have breakfast already?"

"Didn't bother," Eggsy mumbles.

"Why?"

Eggsy shakes the snow-globe, lacking in energy. "’Cos you weren't home."

Harry blinks. The only reason Eggsy would know that is--"Did you go into my room?"

"What? No." Eggsy scrunches his nose, still not looking at Harry. The boy has no need to lie. Harry wouldn't be angry. Ever since the first time Eggsy broke in, he was always careful to keep anything Kingsman-related hidden well out of sight and reach.

"Then how did you know I wasn't home?" Harry counters gently.

Taken aback, offence settles on Eggsy's face. "’Cos I can tell?" Eggsy grips the snow-globe, staring intently at it, adamant. "Can't you?"

"Can't I what?" He prompts mechanically, unsure what course of action to take. He doesn't wish to upset any him further.

Eggsy's breathing becomes noticeably laboured. "Can't you tell whether or not I'm around? Can't you sense it?"

"I--" Harry stops. "Yes."

_Of course I can. I'm a trained operative._

He hears Eggsy exhale, "Well--there you go."

Harry closes his mouth. He clears his throat. "Well, I'll just go take a quick shower."

"Yeah, yeah." Eggsy finally deigns to look at him, and he does a double-take, sitting up on the sofa.

Harry halts in his journey towards the stairs.

"What is it?"

"I--" Eggsy stares and Harry tries not to feel too self-conscious. "I never seen you wear something like that before."

"Well, yes. I went out for a run," Harry says for the lack of anything else.

"A run," Eggsy repeats.

Harry raises his eyebrows. "Yes, Eggsy. What else would I be doing so early in the morning?"

Eggsy slowly goes back down, hiding behind the armrest of the sofa until all Harry can see are his eyes and the top of his head.

"Dunno."

"...Alright." Harry resists the urge to make his way over and ruffle his hair. "I'll be back."

Eggsy mutters.

It takes less than ten minutes for a thorough shower and a change of clothes. It would have taken much less if he wasn't trying to figure out Eggsy's strange behaviour. But then again, he's always been strange.

To be fair, Harry has no point of reference. He doesn't know much teenagers the way he knows Eggsy. He doesn't really know anyone else much at all.

"Where would you like to go for breakfast?" He calls out as he makes his way downstairs.

"That was quick. Thought you'd spend ages in there."

"Military training, Eggsy; In and out of the shower in less than five minutes--it's a habit that's easy to get back to if necessary. Now, breakfast?"

Eggsy shifts, making space for him and settling in on Harry's usual space on the sofa. "Do we have to? Can't we just stay here? It's gonna rain soon."

"That's what the umbrella is for, Eggsy." Harry sits down, and Eggsy squints at him.

"You have that sling on again."

"Yes...?"

A smirk tugs at the corner of Eggsy's mouth even as he accuses him, "I swear, it's like half the time I think you're faking it."

"It would have been uncomfortable running with it on," Harry explains, "My arm needed the stretch anyway."

Eggsy huffs.

"Breakfast?" Harry prompts.

"Why can't we just stay?" Eggsy frowns, putting his legs up on the sofa, knees bent to keep a space between them.

"Wouldn't you like a change of scenery?" Harry coaxes.

Eggsy shakes the snow-globe and watches the tiny flecks of white settle. "I like it here."

A wave of fondness catches Harry off-guard. "We'll be back," He tells him, trying to keep the smile at bay, "There's someone coming in to install flood prevention mechanisms around the house while we're gone."

"What the hell?" Eggsy perks up, "While we're gone? What if someone nicks something? _Harry_ ," Eggsy exasperates, "We should be keeping watch."

With Mordred supervising the rest of installation crew, Harry legitimately doubts that's something to be worried about. Still, he's pleased and amused at Eggsy's protectiveness considering he was the one who broke in a long time ago, intending to steal something. "If it makes you feel better, lock your door, Eggsy."

The boy stares at him. "What?"

Harry raises his eyebrows. "Lock your door."

"...I can do that?"

Perplexed, Harry explains slowly, "Yes. Your door has a lock." Harry himself had specifically changed it so it has a different type of key than the one on Kingsman's records. He intends to change the one on the front door after this installation. "Didn't you notice?"

"Yeah. I mean, yeah, but--It's your house."

"We've spoken about this. It's your room. Are you telling me you've never locked your door?"

"I--I could've been doing that," Eggsy seems to realise, repeating in vehemence to himself, " _I could've been doing that._ "

Harry watches him cover his face in apparent vexation. This boy is truly ridiculous.

"It's nothing to stress about. Go change and let's go."

"Ugh," Eggsy stands, making his way to leave. He stops, narrowing his eyes at Harry. "You--you're not gonna change into a suit are you? It's just breakfast."

Feeling caught, Harry shakes his head. Why the boy insists on him not wearing suits is beyond him.

 

»

 

After taking Eggsy's schedule from the refrigerator and putting it in his pocket, Harry waits in the foyer. He's adjusting the arm sling over his coat when hears Eggsy make his way down, and he turns to see that Eggsy's wearing a classic zip black hoodie over a dress shirt that he usually wears for work along with some dark jeans. More importantly, he has the [bag](http://i.imgur.com/9QVbVH4.png) that Harry just stashed into his wardrobe in the hopes that he'll get around to using it.

Pleased, he hands over the key. "For your room."

"Err..." Eggsy doesn't take it, scratching at his neck and looking away. "You keep it. You open it for me when we get back. I'll probably end up losing it."

"Alright. Would you like to put some extra coat on? It's cold outside."

"I'm fine. You? You want the scarf?" Eggsy offers, gesturing at the one on the coat-rack.

He declines politely out of habit; One can easily be strangled with scarves out of the blue. He only has that there just in case Eggsy feels the need to wear them. And even then, Harry makes certain to tuck the ends out of sight.

"Don't forget your umbrella this time, yeah?" Eggsy reminds him, teasing.

Harry takes him to an independently-run café that has a superb reputation, but not visually fancy enough to be considered high-class and posh. Nothing that would make Eggsy feel too uncomfortable. It's actually quite vintage, if not cozy.

"I do hope the coffee smell isn't too strong for you?"

Eggsy gives him a dry look. "We live in London, coffee smell is everywhere. I'm not gonna keel over and die if I have a whiff."

"Good."

Harry notices that even as they eat, Eggsy has a protective hand over the bag on his lap, but he doesn't ask.

"This is good stuff, Harry. Thanks," Eggsy says later.

It isn't too odd, but Harry knows it when Eggsy's grateful for something, and Eggsy's usually not so vocal unless he's lost in raving about it. A quick 'thank you' is his usual go-to, but his shining expression is more than enough for Harry.

"You're welcome," Harry finds himself replying regardless.

Eggsy clears his throat. "So, are you ever gonna tell me your birthday?"

Harry rolls his eyes. He knew there was something.

"No."

Eggsy whines, "I'm giving you one last chance, Haz, I swear."

"Last chance for what?" Harry questions, appalled.

Huffing, Eggsy stares at him for a few moments before seemingly accepting that Harry won't give in. He unzips his bag, glances at Harry, and seems to be gathering up courage before he slaps something on the table. It's a small box covered by a stack of two paper cards turned over so only the back is showing.

"I didn't know which one to get," blurts Eggsy, looking away. "So this is your fault, basically."

Harry turns the cards over to find--"Dear god," He mutters, looking up at the ceiling before bracing himself to look down at the birthday cards--one indicating [forty](http://i.imgur.com/MdCetfs.jpg), and the other, [fifty](http://i.imgur.com/ao5TpC8.jpg).

_Am I really this old?_

He frowns down at them, feeling the indentations of the designs with his fingers.

"Sorry, I should probably have given you the forty, huh? Lemme take this one back." Eggsy snatches it before Harry can even protest.

"You may as well go for a switch. Fifty is much closer to the truth," Harry huffs in admittance, resigned. "Give it back, I'll keep it."

"No," Eggsy insists, starting to look embarrassed. "I'll give it when the time comes. Let's pretend this didn't happen."

He makes to grab the box, but Harry gets to it first, flipping it over to see a [bow-tie](http://i.imgur.com/sfBvi6h.jpg), navy blue, striped with white and yellow-gold.

"I saw it and thought of you--thought you'd find it hideous, I mean," Eggsy confesses. "It's cheap and tacky. Probably goes against everything you stand for."

Despite all odds, Harry finds himself smiling. "It's not _that_ hideous."

He keeps it close, wary of Eggsy snatching it back, and opens the remaining card to read the scribble on it.

 

' _HAPPY BIRTHDAY! ...whenever that is. I don't know what to say. Saw this card. Thought of you--'cos of the suit. Stay classy, Haz._ '

 

"...Thank you, Eggsy," He murmurs softly.

For once, he lets himself bask in the warmth of it all. He looks up to find Eggsy watching him, a hand propped under his chin. There's a few seconds before Eggsy looks down, smiling gently. "You're welcome."

Harry tears his gaze away, admiring the card again when he notices something. "You didn't sign it."

"What?"

He flips it over, wordlessly showing Eggsy.

"Oh," Eggsy begins, turning awkward, "I didn't know what to put."

"What else is there to put but your name?" Harry muses.

"Well--Yeah, yeah," Eggsy grimaces, and puts a hand out. "Come, give me the stuff. I'll put it back in my bag. No use carrying it all the way home."

Harry hands them over and he clears his throat. "The installation won't be done for another few hours."

"Mmm?" Eggsy zips his bag, distracted. "That's good, innit? We can supervise."

"No."

Harry can't risk Eggsy being seen by Mordred.

"No?" Eggsy fixes him with a curious stare.

"Let's spend the day out," Harry suggests.

Eggsy raises his eyebrows. "Doing what?"

"Whatever you'd like," Harry hears himself say.

Despite biting his lip, Eggsy can't contain his smile. "We can't just walk around Hyde Park, not in this weather--And don't say shopping," He warns him, "It's not even noon."

"Pity."

Eggsy huffs, teasing, "Caught you there, didn't I?"

Harry shakes his head, smiling. "Let's watch a film."

Eggsy stops. He watches Harry, expression unreadable.

"...Yeah," He breathes after a moment, "Yeah, let's."

 

 

 

**II**

 

 

They're at one of the Barbican Cinemas, and Eggsy is torn between _Live Free or Die Hard, Harry Potter And The Order Of The Phoenix_ , or _Shrek 3_.

Preposterous.

"Well, what do you want to see then?"

Harry stops his longing glance at _La Vie en Rose_. However, it's a rather moot point, Eggsy's noticed.

"Alright," Eggsy concedes. "Let's rock, paper, and scissors for it," He gets into the proper stance, gearing himself, rolling his shoulders back and forth.

"Or--" Harry rolls his eyes. "You choose two, I choose one. We watch all three."

Eggsy gapes, "If you're serious, we're gonna be here forever."

"Six to seven hours, give or take a few," Harry calculates.

"Fuck, you're serious," Eggsy marvels, eyes wide and shining.

"Choose, and we'll work out the time scheduling."

There's a reason why Harry never had a need for television. He's always watched films in the cinema during his down time. Sometimes he'd spend the whole day there, or go watch a play in the West End, stopping by for some Italian before going home. These past two years, however, he's been quite busy. He doesn't like to think about that.

After a few minutes spent figuring out the optimum time schedule, they decide on _Live Free or Die Hard_ first, and having just eaten, Eggsy only orders a soda, while Harry goes for a bottle of water. Eggsy actually seems surprised when Harry puts his mobile on silent when the reminder comes on and follows suit.

On-screen, such impossible feats of action and violence drives Harry's eyes to roll in more than one occasion. Which is quite hypocritical, once he remembers what he does for a living. It's odd to have forgotten in the first place.

He frowns, but Eggsy's genuine enjoyment distracts him once more and Harry lets himself settle.

While _La Vie en Rose_ is a masterpiece in cinematography and acting, Harry finds it shortsighted of himself to have not seriously thought more about the fact that it's a French film--and so of course it was bound to show a bit of nudity. He refuses to look at Eggsy. Surely he's seen half-naked women before. Such scenes are thankfully very brief, anyhow.

"That was surprisingly good," Eggsy tells him when they leave and line up again for their last film. Harry legitimately waits for crass commentary expected of a teenage boy, but he's legitimately disappointed in himself for even considering it as Eggsy goes on about his favourite parts with heavy explanation and technical critiques. If anything, Harry's impressed.

"You seem well-versed in the art of film and cinematography."

Eggsy chortles. "No. I just used to go to a lot of film marathons with Roxy and Quinlan. Tough crowd to please, those two."

Harry always thinks it's sweet of Eggsy to think of his friends and mention them in passing. It truly shows the bond between them. He can tell he misses them very much despite his jovial demeanour. He vaguely considers a plot to let him win some sort of trip so he can go see them.

"Back again?" The ticket-clerk asks, clearly recognising them from before.

Harry raises an eyebrow at her audacity, but Eggsy only laughs, grinning as he tells her which film they're about to see next. Quite charming for her, Harry imagines, considering she smiles back and does her job with a little more eagerness.

There's a strange pleasure that appeases him when her face falls the moment Eggsy turns his attention to Harry, clutching at his sleeve near the elbow, mindful of the sling, "I think we'll get some food this time. Or did you have something else in mind for dinner?"

"Whatever you'd like," Harry murmurs on automatic. "We can certainly do both."

"Oh my god," Eggsy huffs, "I swear you're trying to get me fat." His accusation becomes interspersed with breathless amusement.

Harry takes the tickets from the clerk's listless hand, ushering Eggsy away who keeps his light hold on Harry's elbow.

They get through the ticket-taker and line up for the food concessions.

"Again," Eggsy starts, chiding, "Trying to get me fat."

"Fattening you up is a different matter entirely," He finds himself saying without any conscious provocation.

Eggsy gasps, "So it's true then?"

Frowning, Harry considers it, taking a chance to study Eggsy. In comparison from when Harry first saw him in March, which genuinely seems like a lifetime ago, Eggsy is more...fuller. Not rounded, no, that jawline is still too pronounced. But he used to be all harsh lines of bones and muscle, the bags of his eyes quite noticeable. Now, there's simply more to him.

And Harry thinks, _Yes_ , he likes him better like this. Healthier. Well cared for, well-taken care of.

Thankfully, Eggsy is already distracted browsing which food to order, so Harry doesn't have to give him a definite answer. Instead, he discreetly takes his mobile out and sends a quick message to Quinlan.

 

_'Where does Eggsy like to eat?'_

 

He can't even put the mobile back in his pocket because the response arrives much faster than he expects.

 

**19\. 07. 2007 - Hellspawn:**

_what the fcuk_

 

Initially, there is a mild concern considering that Quinlan doesn't resort to text speak or typos despite his youth. But then again, they rarely ever message each other, mostly communicating through secure calls. Therefore, Harry chalks the uncharacteristic formatting to surprise and merely texts back, careful to stay aware of Eggsy who is currently pointing at something behind the display cases of sweets.

 

_'Restaurant. Not fast-food.'_

 

**19\. 07. 2007 - Hellspawn:**

_Was going to say odd sentimentality to McDonalds_

 

**19\. 07. 2007 - Hellspawn:**

_Quid pro quo._

 

Harry rolls his eyes. He's about to type a reply when Eggsy asks, "What size of popcorn do you want? Small?"

He manages to keep the mobile hidden as he thoughtlessly answers, "I don't eat popcorn."

Those are the wrong words to say going from the mild affront on Eggsy's face and the challenging glint in his eyes. That does not bode well for Harry.

"Make that a medium, bruv," Eggsy tells the young man behind the counter before turning back to him, "Can I have ice-cream?"

"I don't know, _can_ you?" Harry simply can't resist.

Eggsy groans before affecting an obedient childish front dripping with sarcasm. " _May_ I have some ice-cream, Mr. Hart?"

"Cheeky," mutters Harry, "Take note I'm still taking you out to dinner."

"Damn, you're right," Eggsy focuses back in his order, "I'll just have a box of Maltesers then."

Harry returns to his mobile to find more messages.

 

**19\. 07. 2007 - Hellspawn:**

_Best way to kill a man, quick and clean._

 

**19\. 07. 2007 - Hellspawn:**

_For science._

 

Harry frowns, dubious at what Quinlan's version of 'science' exactly means. He follows Eggsy to wait with him for his order.

 

**19\. 07. 2007 - Hellspawn:**

_Snap neck or puncture pressure point?_

 

 _'Poison'_ , He starts to type before deleting.

_'Theoretically, the first. Theoretically, for science, for someone of your build--bit tricky. Go for second.'_

 

"Is that work?" Eggsy asks him, giving a side-eye at his mobile.

Harry refrains from pulling it closer in defence. "More or less. Work-related."

It's not exactly a lie.

 

**19\. 07. 2007 - Hellspawn:**

_Thought so. Figures. Merely double checking._

 

**19\. 07. 2007 - Hellspawn:**

_Loch Fyne, Covent Garden. Catherine st? Beside Theatre royal. Seafood. Crabs+prawns._

 

Eggsy gets his food, and they make it just in time for the previews. There's not much people, the film's been out for a few weeks after all. Once in their seats, Eggsy takes the time to settle all the food, pulling out Harry's water bottle from his bag and handing it over.

Even as the film begins, Harry's still in disbelief that he's watching _Shrek 3_ of all things. It's inevitable, giving in to face-palming. And he can't help but do it again and again, especially when he finds characters named 'Merlin' and 'Artie'. Harry can't quite deny the irony and the humour then, especially when Eggsy laughs so hard he smacks Harry's chest in a fit of amusement. Harry suspects he doesn't even notice he's doing it.

Eggsy keeps offering him food, and Harry merely sends him admonishing looks.

Which really doesn't deter him. It only drives Eggsy to shove more popcorn into his own mouth, crunching loudly on purpose. Repulsive. Such insolence.

Why is Harry so fond of him?

"No," Harry mutters, adamant.

He senses Eggsy lean closer by his side, near-whining in his whisper, "Why not?"

"I am not getting my lone operating hand dirty."

"But it's so good, Harry, come on."

 _I know it's good that's why I can't have it_. The boy has already reintroduced him to McDonald's. There was a valid reason why Harry stopped going all those years ago, with the exception of his own established quota of thrice a year. Now, he's a lost cause. It can't happen again, much less for popcorn. Harry has always successfully resisted during his trips to the cinema. It's a feat he's proud of.

Resolutely, he stares ahead, trying to focus on the film.

With no warning, something lightly bumps against his mouth and Harry nearly flinches.

"Eggsy," He warns under his breath, "What are you doing?"

"Come on," Eggsy coaxes, gently pushing a single piece of popcorn against his lower lip, "You don't have to get your hand dirty, I'll do it for you."

Harry slightly tilts his head to find Eggsy close, eyes fixated on his own steady intrusion. The pressure builds and builds as Eggsy keeps pushing--not enough to hurt, it's very, _very_ light, but enough to be bothersome, and Harry stares as Eggsy opens his own mouth, goading, as if Harry's a fucking child to be fed.

Except--

He doesn't even know he's given in until he sees Eggsy's eyes widen and tastes the salt on his tongue.

Harry stills. He genuinely considers spitting it out right then and there. But Eggsy's look of breathless wonder stops him.

"Oh my god," Eggsy croaks, "Oh my god," he says again as he pushes his face against Harry's shoulder, hiding. "Jesus."

Harry takes the chance to discreetly take it out of his mouth, harshly wiping his fingers on his trousers, right under the knee.

"I didn't think you'd actually do it," Eggsy wails quietly, "Christ, I'm sorry."

Opening the bottle one-handed, Harry swallows some water down, desperately thirsty.

"For punishment, I'm taking you shopping," He grouses against Eggsy's hair as soon as he comes up for air.

"Fuck."

Something humourous happens on-screen, prompting the audiences to laugh. Eggsy hysterically laughs with them, shaking, face still buried against Harry's shoulder.

 

»

 

When they make their way out, they're faced with dark clouds despite it still being technically light outside. This time of the year, sunset would be around nine. As it is, it's only six in the evening. The wind slightly picks up and it starts to drizzle. Harry deploys his umbrella, shielding Eggsy and himself underneath. A mother ushering her children out passes them by, shooting a razor-sharp glare over her shoulder. Harry briefly glances behind him to see if there was anyone else that was meant for.

Eggsy lightly tugs at his elbow, distracting him. "Where to next? Dinner?"

"No," says Harry, feeling particularly vindictive, "Shopping first."

There's a groan but Harry ignores it in favour of pulling out his mobile to call for a cab, and he sees the messages.

 

**19\. 07. 2007 - Hellspawn:**

_Colonialstyle place. Bit posh but homey. Fooled him into thinking it wasn't too expensive._

 

**19\. 07. 2007 - Hellspawn:**

_To be fair he thinks £10 for 1 meal is expensive._

 

**19\. 07. 2007 - Hellspawn:**

_Probably helps if you hide the menu._

 

**19\. 07. 2007 - Hellspawn:**

_Buy him dessert..s_

 

Harry squints. That's just mildly insulting. Of course he'll buy him dessert, that's a given, and it certainly goes without saying.

"Harry, I swear," Eggsy complains, "Punish me next time. I wanna go home."

"Already?" Harry manages to keep the disappointment out of his tone.

"The house is gonna be empty when we get back. Hopefully no one's mad enough to have robbed Mr. Pickle along too," Eggsy huffs, "I think I'd help you hide the bodies."

 _Oh_ , he means Harry's house.

Pleased, Harry decides, "I think I'll feed you first."

Eggsy scoffs, "Yeah, 'cos I'm a dog, me. Need to be fed."

Getting into the cab, Harry merely says 'Catherine Street', counting on Quinlan's information being up to date. When they get there, Harry immediately catches sight of the Theatre Royal, not too far away.

In response to Eggsy's question about where they're going, Harry shrugs.

"There are numerous places to eat at here, I'm afraid I can't quite choose. Take a look around, see if you find anything," says Harry, purposely walking towards the direction of the theatre. It's quite easy then, when Eggsy eventually does a double-take, clearly remembering. Harry follows his line of sight to find Loch Fyne, and immediately ushers him towards it despite the weak protests.

Through the open door, they wait in line. Eggsy looks around, shifty.

Harry goes for distraction. "Would you kindly take care of my umbrella?"

Eggsy takes it from him, moving closer outside to close it and lightly shake off the water.

"Table for two?" The young woman asks with a cheery smile. He glances at her name-tag.

"Yes, please. Thank you, Diana," Harry replies. He leans in closer to keep his voice down, charming as he can, "Would you happen to have menus without the prices on them?"

She blinks at him before chuckling, demure, "Yes, of course, I'll have that for you."

Eggsy comes back with a frown on his face and Harry's umbrella, the strap neatly wrapped around it. Harry takes it from him, smiling gratefully.

Once they're directed to their seats, Eggsy excuses himself to go to the restroom.

 

\--

 

Eggsy splashes water on his face, trying to calm down.

_It's not a fucking date, it's not a fucking date. Jesus fuck._

Eggsy's intended last Theory test was sending him the photo of that Adidas jacket and Harry clearly didn't bite. He legitimately thought that was the end of it. And he was ready to do his best and back off, to let reality set in, especially when Harry wasn't home this morning--but now _this_.

He's spent the whole day with Harry, from quality breakfast to three fucking films at the Barbican and now, dinner. Dinner at the place that just happens to be one of Eggsy's favourites despite being only here once.

Eggsy is so fucking confused, and worse, Eggsy is so fucking gone.

He remembers his greasy fingers against Harry's lips, coaxing it open--and it was an annoying joke, of course, that's what it was, he didn't actually think-- _Fucking hell_ , he remembers Harry's mouth parting, just like that and--

"Jesus," Eggsy grits his teeth, resolute.

_I'm not getting a hard-on--Fucking--Not again._

The embarrassment burns at the fact that he had a hard-on with _Shrek 3_ in the background. Jesus fucking christ. He will never watch it again. Any of it.

And that really attractive blonde that sat them down, the way she looked at Harry--Christ.

He needs to calm down.

 

\--

 

The restaurant is well-lit, but it manages to keep a relaxed intimate atmosphere despite that and the large windows overlooking some of the neighbourhood's most elegant architecture. It probably helps that it's pouring outside and most people are wisely in their homes.

Harry takes the chance to peruse the [menu](http://i.imgur.com/wm4XlXS.png). It's quite varied in its options and he can only hope the quality is up to par.

Eggsy sits across from him, giving a brief smile before opening the menu. Harry discreetly observes him. Therefore he notices it when he slows down in his reading and starts to blink owlishly.

_Tsk. So close._

"Harry."

"Hmm?"

"There's no price."

Harry huffs. This boy is absolutely ridiculous. Harry has spent the day buying him food and film tickets. It's not exactly shopping in its usual form, but it still counts. The fact that Eggsy constantly wavers between this line of reservation and shamelessness--It's a bizarre phenomenon. Perhaps it's a teenager thing. Hormones and such. Indecisiveness and the like. Either way, it's something Harry needs to work on. If he's completely honest, he's spent more money on him than Eggsy will ever know.

And it's just a knowledge that's settled deep within himself that he'll continue to do so.

What else could Harry possibly spend his money on?

His house is nearly full of baubles and he's running out of space for his collections. Even the bar is full of unconsumed vintage alcohol. For most of his life, due to his career, he was rarely ever home. Expenses for going out for dinner or take-away and tickets for films and plays never racked up high enough. He rarely went on holidays. Part of Kingsman salary accounts for housing budget as well, and it was a few years ago when his house was fully paid. The biggest expenditures he's had were 'unnecessarily' damaged Kingsman suits that needed repair or replacement. The organisation has quotas for such things.

All in all, yes; Harry has money, strictly of his own independent hard work and the occasional bored ventures into the stock market and investments.

He's aware that there are things such as charity organisations, claiming to do good in the world. Perhaps it's trust issues. Because such options pale in comparison to the idea of buying Eggsy things. Making his life better, giving him opportunities, seeing that look on his face.

"Unless you want me to buy everything on the menu, I recommend you choose whatever you feel like having," Harry murmurs mildly.

There's a brief guttural noise from Eggsy.

Regrettably, Harry doesn't give in to ordering any alcohol and settles for tea while Eggsy opts for water. Harry refrains from narrowing his eyes.

Marie, their server, enthusiastically goes on about the menu at Harry's request. He's honestly not too excited about seafood in general but he can manage. He does have a few exceptions after all.

"Eggsy, would you like some oysters?"

Receiving no answer, he looks up from the menu to find Eggsy staring at him, mouth slightly parted.

"Err. No."

"Mmm, make that six instead of a dozen, Marie."

Eggsy looks away and nibbles at the bread served as appetisers.

There's nothing on the starters section that Harry finds in any way desirable. Harry goes straight for the main course, deciding on the lobster spaghetti and a few vegetable sides. It would be easy to eat in his current predicament.

When he realises that Eggsy's only ordering one measly thing, Harry sighs, thinking back to what Quinlan mentioned.

Frowning at the menu, Harry orders some more.

"I'll add to that. The shellfish platter with the whole crab, and the rib-eye steak. Medium-rare."

Marie nods. "Good choice, sir. Would you like the cancel the oyster then? The platter comes with them already."

"Do. And we'll keep a menu just in case we'd like to add more later on," He tells her, giving a customary smile. "Thank you, Marie."

Eggsy levels him with a suspicious gaze and Harry maintains his innocence.

When their orders start to come in, it's all quite manageable, but Eggsy's eyes go wide when the platter comes in. Which, to be fair, _does_ take a grand [space](http://i.imgur.com/iaPDkZX.jpg) on the table.

"You must be really hankering for seafood, guv."

Harry only concentrates on methodically twirling his spaghetti.

"Oi, why is that all you're eating when you've ordered all these?" Eggsy questions.

Huffing, Harry grabs an oyster. "I think you know why."

"Even the steak? You seem like a steak kinda guy."

"I can't exactly work at it with the grace of only one arm," Harry tells him dryly.

"Huh."

Harry hears of silverware against wood, and he looks up to find Eggsy having deserted his own utensils in favour of the ones on the rib-eye plate. Harry doesn't realise what he's about to do until Eggsy asks him, "D'you like your pieces big or small?"

Harry can only stare.

_What in the world?_

If any man were in this situation they'd surely find it as an affront, which is understandable considering that Harry himself has never been on the other side of such a gesture. But it's Eggsy. And despite the layers of shock and bewilderment, Harry finds himself preposterously honoured.

Eggsy huffs, rolling his eyes. "Variety then. Cool." He goes on slicing the meat in different sizes, piercing the last piece and taking it for himself. "Mmm, shit. It's good. Try it."

While it is indeed good, Harry's had better, and he mentally makes a note to take Eggsy there someday as he nods in agreement. It isn't long until Eggsy warms up, becoming less guarded, genuinely enjoying his meal. Harry finds it endearingly amusing, the way Eggsy spends a good amount of time peeling the prawns and pulling the legs off until he has a pile ready to be consumed.

At least, he finds it amusing until Eggsy puts half of them on Harry's plate.

"What?" Eggsy challenges, "You ordered a lot, I can't eat it all by myself. And here, try the crab, it's good stuff." Eggsy puts the other half of the crab on Harry's plate and Harry gives him a pointed look.

"Oh, shit, right. Your arm--Ugh." Eggsy takes it back, chagrined. "It's not that I forgot, I'm always so aware of it, just not---consciously. _Ugh_."

"Eggsy," Harry starts, trying to calm him down. He really shouldn't stress about it. "There's no need to--"

Eggsy snaps the crab into smaller halves with his bare hands. Harry is taken aback to the point where his mind goes blank, only watching as Eggsy moves on to breaking the crab's legs to obtain the meat. "Lemme just make sure there aren't any rogue shells or something, I don't want you dying on me." He goes on to do just that, nitpicking tiny stray shells and putting it at the corner of his plate.

"Here you go," Eggsy says, placing the pieces of crab on Harry's plate, now easily accessible in its current state.

Harry clears his throat, holding on to his composure. "Thank you."

"Mhm," Eggsy distractedly wipes his dirty hands on the napkin before going back to eating.

Harry clears his throat again. "Would you like to try some of this lobster spaghetti?"

"Huh?"

Inwardly berating himself, Harry feels ridiculously foolish, but Eggsy grins, delighted. "Yeah, just a forkful though, I literally have way too much on my plate."

They make light conversation throughout dinner, most of it Harry answering Eggsy's questions. He supposes it was unfair of him, considering what Eggsy had said before about not knowing much at all about Harry. At first he's very wary, anticipating more questions about his work. However, Eggsy steers clear of that topic and instead questions him about the book choices that he's put in the guest room shelf. Harry doesn't know whether or not to be relieved.

"Politics exam guides, really?" Eggsy shoots him a dubious look, hesitantly reaching for an oyster. "Is that a hint or something?"

"Politics is everything, Eggsy. It helps you grasp the concept of the world, the structure of humanity, and what you can do to change it."

"Hmm," He sniffs at the oyster, scrunching his nose. It must be his first, Harry thinks, considering Eggsy's clearly trying to gain some courage to put it in his mouth. "Our politicians are doing a pretty shite job from what I hear," Eggsy's accent slightly shifts, getting thicker, reverting back to his old ways, "And most of them have posh Oxbridge degrees. It's the common people that should matter, you know what I'm saying? They're the backbone of society. They make the stuff the top brass use. Pave the road they drive their stupid posh cars on."

In a quick motion, Eggsy throws his head back and puts it in his mouth.

" _Yes_. However," Harry carefully thinks of a reply that wouldn't offend, discreetly reaching for a napkin just in case Eggsy will spit it out on the first try. "There are people who work, people who follow orders, and then there are the few--those who _give_ the orders, those who make plans and decisions. They have the power to decide where to focus tax budgets on, what to build, what to destroy. They have the power to declare war. Decisions with ripple effects farther than the eye can see."

Eggsy makes a face as he tries to chew the oyster. "Okay, alright, but why do people follow? Maybe they shouldn't. Also, don't the people vote for that shit?" Eggsy complains, finally swallowing it down.

Such tenacity and fortitude. Good boy.

Eggsy shudders. "The fuck. Can I have some of that?" He urgently gestures at Harry's tea, and that gives Harry some pause; Tea is sacrosanct. Sharing it from the same cup is an unthinkable malfeasance that should be outlawed and subject to heavy punishment.

"You do know you didn't have to swallow?" Harry places the tea within his reach regardless, considering Eggsy starts to choke. Possibly about to hack it back up, Harry reckons. "Here, wash the taste off your tongue."

Eggsy's done so well, of course he deserves a reward. Was there really any other option?

Harry huffs. "And going back to politics, it's much more complicated than that. It's something to think about, Eggsy. You might find it of interest. Speaking of Oxbridge, do you still have your sights set on it?"

Eggsy almost chokes on the tea, bewildered. "Are you kidding me?" He can't hold back his laughter. "Oh my god. What are the chances of _me_ getting into _Oxbridge_? You're so hilarious, I swear." He hands the cup back to him, grinning and confident in his self-deprecation.

Harry is ready to argue against him, but Marie comes along, asking if there's anything more to be done. He immediately looks to Eggsy who has his gaze averted. "Didn't you want ice-cream? What flavour do you want?"

Eggsy gapes at him, clearly about to protest, but Harry cuts him off, innocent as he focuses on the [dessert](http://i.imgur.com/Df2YWgH.png) portion of the menu, "Unless you'd like to try all five? Also, there are sorbets, but you're not fond of raspberry. Perhaps the lemon?"

"I'll just have the lemon sorbet," Eggsy hastily tells him.

"Hmm, also the steamed marmalade pudding. I see it has lemon syrup as well. That'll be it, Marie. Thank you."

At least Eggsy has the decency to wait until she's gone to lightly bang his head on the table, muttering, "I can't believe you sometimes. Look at all this food we haven't finished."

"To be fair there's not much left," Harry rationalises.

"Why'd you even think I like lemon?"

Harry's brows furrow. "Don't you? I remember you being quite keen for lemon pudding during the time in the Imperial War Museum," he recalls absently.

Eggsy stills, slowly looking up to peek at him. Harry can't even to begin to wonder why because his mobile vibrates, and he politely excuses himself to the restroom to take it.

" _I've done everything as asked,_ " says Mordred upon picking up, _"Finished about an hour ago."_

"Oh, good. Thank you."

" _When will you be coming back?_ "

That makes Harry pause. "Why? Is there anything else to discuss?" He questions.

" _Ah, no. I suppose not._ "

Harry waits, cautious.

" _Well. Goodbye, sir._ "

"Goodbye," Harry replies promptly.

He makes his way back to find their table nearly empty except for the drinks and desserts. Eggsy is making a face at the sorbet, spoon skirting around the edges.

"What's wrong? Not to your liking?"

"Nah, it's good." He settles the spoon down in the small bowl, and inches the whole thing towards Harry almost absently. "Try it."

Harry humours him, taking the spoon and taking a scoop. He's not all that excited about lemon as a primary flavour, but taking the time to taste it in his mouth, he thinks he can get around to liking it.

Eggsy stares with a stunned expression.

"It's good." Harry nods, putting the spoon back and pushing the small bowl back to Eggsy. He turns his attention to the pudding.

"Have you ever considered wearing a ring?" Eggsy blurts.

"A ring?" Harry frowns down at his hands. He's wearing the signet ring. He always does.

"Like, a wedding ring," Eggsy specifies.

Harry huffs, picking up his spoon. "This again. I already told you--"

"No, no, I get that but just. A ring. You ever considered wearing one?"

"What for?" He takes a scoop of the pudding and attempts to discern the ingredients by taste alone.

"To keep people away? Maybe?" Eggsy suggests weakly before swallowing, "How about that? Is that--" He motions to Harry's dessert, "--Is that good?"

Harry takes the spoon from his mouth and sets it down on the plate. He's about to tell him when he notices Marie pass by in his peripherals. Harry mindlessly offers for Eggsy to have a taste as he motions for her to come over with the bill.

When he looks again, he finds that the pudding plate is far from his reach.

"S'good," Eggsy murmurs, mouth muffled around a spoon that Harry eventually realises is clearly not the one in the sorbet bowl.

Harry raises his eyebrows, appalled. "Is that mine?"

Marie comes over and Eggsy averts his gaze. Which strikes Harry as odd. Going from his time in Holland Park, one would think that Eggsy would take the chance to use his charms on such an attractive young lady. If anything, Eggsy's bordering on awkward at the moment. Either way, Harry's grateful. This is technically a formal setting. Such actions would be inappropriate.

Harry pays the bill and Marie quietly goes away before Harry remembers to ask for another spoon.

He huffs, resigned. "If I may have my spoon back, please?"

They take their time finishing up and make their way home. It's dark and it's raining with more vigour; Harry considers sending him straight back to Michelle's place, but there's something he wants Eggsy to see at home.

 

»

 

"I'm so full," Eggsy bemoans as he exits the cab, "It's like I'm drunk."

Harry huffs, unlocking the door. "Watch your step."

Eggsy almost falls down on his face when he fails to do so. There's a mechanism installed neatly against the front of the door, practically a barricade, two and a half feet tall.

"Jesus, what did I tell you? M’drunk, me," Eggsy complains as Harry helps him get upright, "No, I swear," Eggsy insists, taking off his shoes, mumbling, "Don't you get that? When you eat too much? Get all buzzed and soft and lazy?"

"Maybe," Harry absently answers as he hangs the umbrella on the coat-rack, moving on to unbuckle his sling before gingerly trying to take off his coat.

"Mmm, lemme help you with that--Careful."

"Thank you," Harry says as Eggsy hands him his coat.

"I'mma go upstairs to change real quick, I wanna be comfy in my sweats."

It isn't even ten seconds when Eggsy suddenly calls out from upstairs, putting Harry on immediate alert. He grabs the umbrella, makes his way up and raises his voice, sharp, "Eggsy?"

"My door's locked," Eggsy calls back out, "You have the key, yeah? Sorry, I forgo--why'd you bring your brolly up?"

Harry sighs. He ruffles Eggsy's hair in retaliation.

"Oi!"

Harry unlocks his door, handing him the key before going to his own room to change into something more comfortable. Upon much internalised debate, he puts the sling on over his robe. Harry determinedly gets downstairs first, going through the kitchen under dim lights to put Eggsy's schedule back on the fridge. He further goes on to make sure that everything is in place in the living room.

"Harry, I checked real quick, Mr. Pickle's still there--"

Gawking, Eggsy stops in the entryway with the preposterous Ikea shark held under his arm.

Harry waits and tries not to fidget.

"Oh my god," Eggsy gasps, repeating it in escalation, "Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god!" He rushes towards it, practically bouncing at the feet. "The telly's all set up? How? It's a fucking beauty. And what's this? When did you have the time to get all these stuff?" Eggsy admires the speakers on the sides and prods at the DVD player.

Harry huffs, pleased, "I had an expert pick them out and deal with it. Thought I might as well."

"You sneaky as fuck, Haz," Eggsy crows, collapsing backwards on the sofa with his plush toy shark. "Oh right," He sits up, fishing for something in his large sweatshirt pocket. "Here's your birthday stuff."

Harry takes them gently, a rush of witless sentimentality washing over him. Sitting down, he can't help but inspect them again. His birthday isn't for another few months--Regardless, it's the thought that counts, he supposes.

When he looks up, Eggsy's sideways on the sofa, facing him with his legs pulled in and the shark settled on his thighs, peeking over his knees. Eggsy presses half of his face against it. There's an uncharacteristic timidness to him that Harry never thought he'd ever get to see, thinking back to all those months ago when they first met again in person. Eggsy was angry and spiteful, bordering on violent, and Harry--Harry is genuinely privileged to have gotten past that. To have been given a chance.

He huffs, attempting to quell the emotions. "Would you like to try out the television?"

"Right now? Nah," Eggsy mumbles against the shark, still looking at the gifts in Harry's hand. "But you can turn on the radio or play some records if you'd like."

Harry is completely bewildered. "I buy you a television and you want the radio on?"

"I--Well, it's not like there's anything good on this time of the night and--" Eggsy stops in his ranting excuse. "Wait--" He blinks, ultimately getting this sheepish look on his face as he peers up at Harry. "What--what do you mean by buy me a telev--Did you--Is that--Is that for _me_?"

"Well--Mostly. Yes. Of course it is, what in the world would _I_ do with it?" He questions, puzzled.

Eggsy stares for a long moment before quickly hiding his face behind the shark again. Rolling his eyes, Harry takes the chance to carefully settle his birthday items on the side table. He hopes Eggsy isn't having a crisis, worrying about the price. Maybe Harry should have lied after all.

"Thanks," Eggsy eventually murmurs, "You didn't have to."

"I know."

Eggsy exhales, gaze towards the television. "We made that."

"Pardon?"

"That," He nods his head towards it, speaking softly despite the genuine emotion, "Hours of sweat and agony. But we did it. We beat the odds. Fuck Ikea. We made it. We made that."

Harry shakes his head, trying to keep the smile at bay. "I suppose we did."

"What should we name it?"

Raising his eyebrows, Harry thinks that maybe Eggsy is onto something with his claims of being drunk from having eaten too much. "It already has a name."

"It's a weird name. Can't even begin to think how to say it."

Harry humours him, pronouncing it perfectly, "Bestå."

Eggsy scrunches his nose. All of a sudden, he lights up with a suggestion, "Can we call it 'Bez' for short?"

There are many options here. Face-palming being one of them. But being faced with Eggsy's genuine eagerness--Harry sighs, ignoring how preposterously indulgent it sounds. "Then so it shall be, Eggsy."

"Nice." Eggsy grins, genuinely bright. But then he squints at his shark. "What about him?"

"What _about_ him?"

"What's his name? D'you remember? I sure as hell don't." He frowns and goes on to talk at it, "Sorry mate." Eggsy gives the shark a quick peck on the head.

 _Ridiculous_.

"Blåhaj," Harry recalls.

"What the fuck?" Eggsy chortles, "BeLOW-high? _Blow-high_?" He descends into a fit of giggles, and Harry legitimately worries that he may be drunk after all. "How do you even spell that?"

Harry does his best to break it down for him.

"But it's a 'j' at the end?" Eggsy complains, outraged.

"It's Swedish, Eggsy."

Eggsy squints, rebellious and adamant in using the 'j'. "Blow-haj. Blow-hash?"

Harry raises his eyebrows, concerned as Eggsy continues in his madness.

"Blow-ha--" Eggsy chokes on nothing and hugs his shark tighter before starting over, determined, "Blah-haj. BaLOW-haj. Balla-hadge? Which sounds better? Something English-sounding that I can live with," he demands, mostly talking to himself, "Blah-haj, balla-hadge..."

He goes on repeat, muttering it different variations and speed, and honestly it sounds as if he's saying--

"You might as well call it Galahad," Harry mindlessly mutters.

There's a worryingly long gasp before Eggsy breaks into cackles, "Oh my god! That's so typically posh of you! Harry!"

Eggsy laughs and laughs, and Harry's distress about foolishly revealing his codename is delayed, put on the back-burner. He watches in awe as Eggsy tries to calm down.

Eventually, Eggsy looks as if he can manage it, and he drawls, near hissing, "Yesss," he bites his lip before breathing out, approving, " _Galahad_."

Eggsy sighs, softening down with an affectionate smile, " _Galahad--that's you._ "

And Harry can't help the errant thought, inexplicably pained and unbearably melancholy-- _Yes. Yes, that's me._

He can only stare as Eggsy pets his shark with one hand and paws at the folded blanket draped on the backrest of the sofa with the other.

"Would you like me to turn the radiator on?" Harry manages despite his inner turmoil.

"Nah. S'nice just like this, you know. Body heat." Eggsy is distractedly shaking the blanket, trying to unfold it, and Harry--

"You should--" _leave_ \--He stops himself, fixing his gaze away before starting over, "Your mother might be worried if you don't go."

"I've already texted her I'm staying over a friends place," Eggsy immediately assures him, and Harry doesn't have to look at him to know he has that mulish expression on his face. He can't help but roll his eyes because he knows Michelle won't believe that.

Harry lets himself glance back at him, and Eggsy's scowling now, not for the first time trying to throw the hem of the blanket so that it reaches his socked feet and it doesn't quite make it.

Harry huffs, grabbing hold of the edge and pulling so it reaches. He tucks it around Eggsy's socked feet.

Eggsy makes an indiscernible noise. "D'you want--?" Eggsy offers, indicating to the blanket.

"No, thank you. I'm warm enough."

"Are you really?" Eggsy squints at him.

Merely gazing back, Harry finds that he's being honest. "Yes."

There's something about watching Eggsy safe and comfortable that drives Harry past contentment. There's a sensation similar if not encompassing the type of fulfillment he gets when he's successfully completed a mission despite all the odds. There's something about this. And Harry thinks that maybe--

"You were in the military, yeah?" Eggsy asks out of blue, and Harry stills.

This whole day was going well. Now, he has to skirt around the issue for the rest of the night. He could deny him of course, shut his questions down, close up. But he knows that would make it worse, and Eggsy's in such a soft mood. Harry can't possibly ruin it.

"You ask as if you don't already know," Harry quips, falling short. He braces himself for the eventuality that this conversation will either end up being about his work, or Lee Unwin. Lee Unwin whose death will always be Harry's fault. Eggsy will remember it, and Eggsy will--

"Well, hang on, I'm just trying to ease you into a conversation here," Eggsy adjusts the shark, hiding behind it. But Harry's already caught a glimpse of a sullen pout and--That's simply not fair.

Harry sighs. "While I appreciate the sentiment, you might as get to the point, you look as if you're about to fall asleep." He ignores his own trepidation.

"Morse code," huffs Eggsy.

"What?" Harry manages through his stunned confusion.

"Morse code," Eggsy repeats, babbling on, "Being a military bloke, you know it don't you? You can see it, you can hear it, yeah? But can you _feel_ it?"

"What brought this on?" Harry questions, perplexed, "And what do you mean by 'feel', exactly?"

Eggsy starts and stops, failing to form a coherent sentence before he exhales in frustration and puts a hand out, beckoning. Harry stares at it, puzzled.

He has an inkling about what he wants. But Harry needs him to ask. Harry wants him to be vocal about what he wants, to be confident about it, to get used to the fact that he's allowed to ask for things. Because whatever it is, as long as it's within reason, Harry will give it to him.

There's a noise of discontent from his throat, but Eggsy stops and takes a slow breath before finally asking, "May I please ho--have your hand?"

Harry finds himself genuinely pleased.

_What do you know, he can be trained after all._

Harry holds his left hand out and Eggsy mumbles, belatedly adding, "S'for science," before he meets it halfway, pulling to set it on the shark. "Okay, so--like, morse code, yeah?"

It's dark and it’s still raining outside. It's been a long day. It may only be nine in the evening but Harry did wake up at five, and Eggsy was already home around eight, meaning it would have taken him about thirty to an hour to get here from Michelle's place using the tube. For all intents and purposes, they should be sleeping.

"Mhm," Harry humours him, powering through his drowsiness. He's gone awake for much longer during his missions, he can do this.

"Have you ever noticed how Nokia's default text message ringtone is SMS in morse?"

Harry opens his mouth, but nothing seems to come out. It's something that Eggsy clearly takes as disbelief because he goes on to awkwardly replicate the sound with his own voice, and Harry tries not to let on how preposterously delightful that was.

What left Harry speechless wasn't disbelief, it was _genuine awe_ because--"How did you know that?" He asks, partially anticipating the answer.

Eggsy's brows furrow. "I just noticed?"

"No one told you?" Harry checks, containing his elation.

Scowling and offended, Eggsy huffs at him, letting go of his hand, " _No_ , I--"

"Brilliant."

Eggsy stops, appearing startled. "Really?"

"Fantastic."

A smile begins to tug at the corners of Eggsy's mouth. Harry can tell he's about to preen but there's a bit of hesitation still, and Harry sees no reason why Eggsy shouldn't. Now, preening in public, that's ungentlemanly. But they're at home. A private setting. Eggsy can preen all he likes with Harry. He should be allowed to be proud of himself.

"Amazing," Harry declares, finding himself leaning closer in genuine interest. "Do go on."

Eggsy puffs up, chuffed, taking Harry's hand again. Suddenly, a frown crosses his features, "Wait," His hold immediately loosens, eyes narrowing, "Are you taking the piss?"

"No," Harry insists. He's been a trained operative for so many years and he didn't even notice what Eggsy's noticed, at least not after any consideration. Thinking back in hindsight, it's easy to see. The Nokia message ringtone is indeed 'SMS' in morse. Harry never consciously picked up on it. But Eggsy did.

What else does he see that Harry has missed?

"Tell me more of this splendid discovery," Harry urges, hushed, nudging Eggsy's hand.

Eggsy huffs, "It's not like it's a _life-changing_ discovery, I can't have been the only one who noticed," he grumbles, lacing their fingers together, "Right, so--" he clears his throat, a hint of anxiety, "Morse code, you can hear it. You can see it in flashing lights. But can you feel it?"

Harry tilts his head, curious.

"Like, if I--if someone was to touch you...like this," Eggsy places the tip of his finger on the back of Harry's hand, between the thumb and the forefinger. "If they just did light taps-- _like this_ \--would you be able to figure it out, do you think? I mean, I'm pretty sure I'm not the only one who thought of this, but I didn't check."

Frowning, Harry can see what he means. "That--might be complicated. With the speed issue, the pacing, and the probability of errors..."

Eggsy's shoulders slump.

"However," Harry lightly grips his hand, trying to get his attention, "With a bit of practice, it can be done."

"Yeah?" Eggsy peers at him, hopeful, resting the side of his head against the backrest of the sofa. "'Cos you know, I started thinking about it. And, like, it would be more logical to learn BSL, it'd be faster communication time. But you'd need to see it more than feel it, wouldn't you?"

"Depends on people and again, practice--What scenario are you imagining to use this on?" Harry questions, baffled.

"Well, okay, so for example, soldiers, commandos--even spies--"

Harry manages not to go rigid; It helps that he's been too pliant for most of the day.

"--what if they're in complete darkness, and they can't make a sound _or else_?" Eggsy ominously sets up the setting with narrowed eyes. Honestly, it looks as if he's about to doze off despite the way he starts to fidget. "But their partner's there with them. And you know, partners, they'd be used to each other, or at least trained together. I think." His words are getting heavy, ungraceful, and slightly slurred. Whether from his own perceived intoxication or his exhaustion, Harry doesn't know. Maybe both. But Eggsy powers through, determined, "I dunno. M'not a fuckin' spy."

Harry offers, hushed, "If they were partners, they should be able to know without having to communicate in such ways."

Not that he would know. Unless Merlin counts, Harry's never had a permanent partner in Kingsman. Some agents have that one person they prefer to work with or fall back on. But that's something that seems to have escaped Harry throughout his career. It doesn't mean he doesn't think about it every now and then. Having someone who knows him so well and having someone _to_ know so well that there's no need for direct communication. Which is preposterous. Communication is important. There are many things that could go wrong without it, especially in the field. And that's what he tells himself every time, why it's better being assigned solo missions.

Eggsy huffs, mulish and fidgety. In attempting to figure out why, Harry realises the space between them has lessened, driving Eggsy's legs to be cramped closer, probably past discomfort.

"Tsk. Your legs must be hurting," Harry mutters, starting to ease back to the other end of the sofa. "This is why we use words."

Eggsy whines in protest. "S'fine. I just need to stretch." And that's exactly what he goes on to do. Over Harry's thighs.

Harry raises his eyebrows. The sheer audacity of this boy.

Eggsy quickly pull his legs back, hiding behind his shark again, long-suffering, "May I please stretch my legs over your lap?" He goes on to grumble, indignant, "Honestly, a gymnast has needs you know."

"Cheeky."

Regardless, Harry slides his left arm under Eggsy's legs and pulls to set them back over his thighs. He offers his hand back to Eggsy. "Proceed."

"Hng, let me get some blood back in my legs," He complains, but he takes it with both hands, focusing intently. "So, right. I'm gonna tap a message, and you tell me what you think it is. Game?"

Harry nods.

Eggsy's fingers settles on the back of Harry's hand. Slowly, he begins to softly tap against his skin with a forefinger.

Halfway through, he hesitates, glancing up at Harry. Embarrassment overtakes his features and he immediately protests, "Don't look! That's cheating! Jesus..."

Rolling his eyes to the ceiling, Harry huffs and rests the side of his head against the backrest of the sofa.

Eggsy begins again and it curiously takes Harry awhile to decipher.

"SMS?" he muses, "What situation in the field would you need to get that across?"

"Fuckin'--I'm just taking it slow here, trying to prove a point with the basics," Eggsy vehemently argues and goes on to challenge him, "If you're _such_ an expert, fuckin' do me."

"As you wish," Harry take his hand.

And for a moment his mind goes blank. It occurs to him that he doesn't know what to say. He frowns, absently running a thumb over Eggsy's knuckles.

When he taps his message on Eggsy's skin, there's a brief pause of silence.

"What the fuck?" Eggsy gapes, "You did not just say ' _hi_ '."

Harry tries to defend himself. "What else was I supposed to say?"

Eggsy guffaws and goes on to exaggerate in his mimicry, "Hello, my name is Harry Hart and I'm so good at everything, let me say hi in morse on your skin."

Huffing, Harry lets him go, "It's clearly time for bed."

There's a brief protesting whine before Eggsy holds Harry's hand hostage. " _No_ \--lemme show you them Q-codes. I'mma use two fingers this time."

Despite the day's exhaustion and his exasperation, Harry merely watches as he lets Eggsy trail his fingers on his hand.

There's a deep-seated knowledge that the reason Eggsy's so well-versed in this is because of the Morse-code Kit Harry had gotten him a few years ago. And that--that fills him with pride and awe. Something so small, something Harry had thoughtlessly added into the pile of gifts he was going to buy for Eggsy--the fact that he took it seriously to the point where he's simply decoded the Nokia ringtone and independently thought of this touch-based system--

Harry wants to see more of what Eggsy can do.

With that sentiment, he reaffirms his decision to tell Merlin. He powers through the chilling dread. Harry will take whatever insult and derision that will come his way. Because they will get around whatever Mycroft has planned, and he will keep Eggsy safe.

Harry won't leave. He refuses to.

Harry will see him grow, Harry will see him prosper, and Harry will...see him meet people along the way. Harry will see him happy and fulfilled in life.

And that in itself is a privilege.

These are the thoughts in his head when he gives in to closing his eyes.

 

»»

 

He feels himself go rigid as he wakes. With eyes still closed, he tries to get his bearings. There's something wrong, and his instincts make him dangerously calm.

Slowly opening his eyes in the barely lit room, he still gets the sensation of wonder when he sees and fully realises that he and Eggsy have fallen asleep on the sofa, heads resting on the backrest, Eggsy slightly leaning the side of his face on Harry's right shoulder, and--Harry slowly breathes against Eggsy's hair, hand instinctively clutching as he tries to figure out the threat. Eggsy's hand gives a light pressure back.

Harry hears it now, the light footsteps close by, possibly the foyer.

All the options he would usually have are derailed by the fact that Eggsy is here. Whoever that is, whatever weapons they have, Harry's priority will always be Eggsy.

Feigning sleep with eyes half-closed, he sees the silhouette peering through the entryway, and Harry is ready to simultaneously throw himself in front of Eggsy and kill this person with an improvised projectile--but he realises it's Mordred.

Mordred, who's stopped still with an utter debilitating shock on his expression and a small parcel under his arm.

Harry refuses to not see him as a threat. In fact, he's even more impossibly defensive, shoulders squaring as he opens his eyes fully to stare him down.

Mordred pales, taking a step back.

There's a pained snuffle from Eggsy, and Harry immediately releases his hand, carefully beginning to extricate himself from him, eyes still on Mordred.

Suddenly, Mordred runs back, uncoordinated, and Harry chases him down in the foyer.

Clearly knowing it's futile, Mordred holds up the small box as a shield but Harry keeps him against the wall with an arm against his throat, pressing close, enunciating coldly, "How dare you sneak in to my territory."

"No, I--shit--please, I--" Mordred manages, and Harry smells the alcohol on his breath.

Not on official authorisation then.

He _slightly_ eases on his throat, and Mordred whispers, hoarse, "You had a parcel," He weakly shakes the box for emphasis, "I thought I'd give it to you personally?"

Harry narrows his eyes. "Why?"

Mordred takes a sharp breath in immediate response, but he can't seem to get a word out, gaze dropping down to Harry's mouth.

Harry stills, blinking slow.

 _...Shit_.

He pulls his arm back and grabs him by the collar instead, pushing him towards the door and grabbing the box in a swift motion upon letting go.

A quick glance at the label confirms that it is indeed Harry's. One that he'd been expecting to have arrived by the time he and Eggsy had gotten home. When it wasn't there, he simply attributed it to post delays.

He fixes his cold stare back to Mordred, and Mordred stumbles back, "I'm sorry, I didn't know."

"Didn't know what, Mordred?" Harry takes a step closer, bringing his left arm closer to where his right hand can reach the watch. "It is common sense and basic decency not to break in to someone's home. And _yet_ \--here you are. Do you know what happens to rude people, Mordred?"

Harry has to take his memory away. Eggsy has been seen.

But he thinks he can hear some movements in the other room. Darting him would leave an unconscious Mordred in the foyer, and explaining that would be a whirlwind of madness. And genuinely, he doesn't like lying to Eggsy. It's taxing.

Mordred breathes out, shaky, "Please..."

Harry takes another threatening step, "Unless you want to be fired for this breach of indecency, you were never here. Do you understand?"

Nodding incessantly, Mordred swallows, "Yes. Yes sir, I--"

Abruptly, several things happen at once.

Mordred surges, leaning in, and Harry has to drop the box in order to hold him back by the jaw and squeeze in warning just as Eggsy arrives through the entryway behind Harry, complaining, "It's arse o'clock, who the _hell_ is at the door---"

Harry lets Mordred go and watches him look down in shame before bracing himself to turn around and face Eggsy.

Eggsy, who's ridiculously clutching the plush shark to his chest and blinking blearily, pausing in rubbing his eyes. "Well. Should I make some tea for everyone, or...?"

"He was just leaving." Harry manages a small smile. "I'll see him out. If you could please take the box with you, it would be very much appreciated."

"...M'kay.." Eggsy relents, smacking his lips sleepily.

As Harry escorts Mordred out, he vaguely considers killing him instead. As he should. He could hide the body behind one of the big potted plants outside his house and wait until Eggsy goes to bed before coming back for Mordred to hide him in the locked storage near the stairs.

Hmm.

Mordred shudders in the cold air as he stammers, "I'm sorry, I'm sorry I didn't know--"

"You will keep your mouth shut," Harry shuts him down automatically, "You will tell no one."

"Yeah--yes. Yes, sir."

Merlin can't hear it from Mordred. That could make things worse. He has to hear it from Harry first. He simply has to ensure that Mordred will keep his mouth shut until Harry's appointment with medical which is in less than twenty-four hours.

"You broke the highest levels of trust and protocols simply for a baseless infatuation," Harry tells him, inhospitable, "You stole a parcel intended for me with the intention of giving back in later hours, privately and alone. You came here _intoxicated_ , and broke into my home, into my territory where I could have easily snapped your neck, Andrew Denbigh."

Mordred makes a miserable noise.

"Exactly. You aren't just stupid, you are also quite pitiful. This isn't merely going to get you fired, Mordred, this is just embarrassing."

There's a hitch of breath, but thankfully it's not arousal, and Harry--

_Ah, shit._

"No need for tears," Harry mutters, settling a hand on Mordred's shoulder as they get to the end of the private street. "You'll get over it. Interns, trainees, and other new additions always tend to be subject to this phenomena, though not quite to this level of escalation, I admit, but you are drunk after all."

Mordred sniffles, and Harry wishes that traffic was heavier during two in the morning so he could push him directly into it.

He grips Mordred's shoulder, doing his best to be a bit more reassuring than threatening. "Go home. Sleep it off. Forget about it."

 

\--

 

Eggsy deserves a fucking BAFTA 'cos he pulled that shit off. Never was his drama skills so on point.

Eggsy had already started waking up the moment Harry left his side. Disoriented and really fucking annoyed, Eggsy looked around in confusion, wondering where Harry could be. He had closed his eyes, trying to get a sense of him, and started to make his way there. But then he remembered his Ikea shark and went back to get it for extra guilt-persuasion points. And really, to be honest, he needed a lot courage to ask Harry to come back to the sofa and sleep with him again, so he needed a good shield to hide his face behind if he fucked it up.

But then Harry was being really threatening about basic common sense. It had stopped Eggsy in place. It wasn't even hissing-angry, it was _calm_ -angry, and it had caused shivers up his spine.

In more ways than one.

When he peeked over the entryway, he could see that he wasn't alone in getting fucking turned on by that. Harry's back was to him, but even in the dim light he saw the other guy's face. So it was just fucking instinct to step out and play the fucking part, 'cos he sure as hell wasn't gonna get to kiss Harry Hart. Not on Eggsy's watch.

The kettle boils and Eggsy starts on making some tea. There's a lot to think about here. First of all, the telly. Harry bought it for him. Second, that bloke. He was clearly into Harry.

But was Harry into him right back? Even just a little bit?

And yeah, okay Eggsy is jealous and angry, whatever the answer to that might be, but he kind of hopes the answer is yes. That way it'll mean Harry also likes blokes. Then everything would be different.

He tries not to worry about what they could be doing outside.

Eggsy needs to ask. He has to be careful about it. It all needs to be set up perfectly.

 

\--

 

On his way to the bar area, Harry pauses in the dimly-lit living room.

"Eggsy, you're supposed to be in bed."

"Nuh-uh," Despite his tired state, Eggsy manages to give him a superior look over a large mug. "If you're drinking anything tonight, it would be this tea." He pats the space on the sofa next to him.

Harry is being lectured in his own home, and all he can do is stare in disbelief.

"If you drink, I drink," says Eggsy, mildly threatening, petting the shark on his lap with one hand. "This is your tea, you know."

"Really?" Harry dryly intones, making his way toward him, "And yet you're drinking from it."

Eggsy reaches to hand the mug over, and Harry takes a sip.

_Oh._

Rolling his eyes, Eggsy clutches his shark and complains, "You don't have to make that face every time."

Harry raises his eyebrows in question.

"That face, like you're surprised I got it right. I know you. I know how you take it--I mean yeah, it depends on whether or not it's been a long day at work, or you just whatever, but still."

There's a certain pride at Eggsy's observational skills, and he should probably be worried about that. But he doesn't wish it to be any less than it is. Because that gives Eggsy an advantage over everyone else, an advantage that gives him opportunities, an advantage that doesn't allow him to be fooled easily, and an advantage to hopefully keep himself safe.

Even from Harry.

Sitting down, the pain catches him off-guard and he can't quite keep the discomfort from his expression fast enough. Eggsy stills.

"Are you injured?" He perks up, attentive, tone preposterously serious, "Did he hurt you?"

Harry huffs at the idea of Mordred managing to even try, "No."

He should have expected this, but from the moment he woke up, adrenaline was on his side, and now it's _crashing_ , letting him feel the soreness of his body.

"I did run for two and a half hours this morning, give or take a few," Harry mutters against the mug.

"Two and a half hours?" Eggsy exclaims, "Are you raging mad?"

Aiming for distraction, he nods to the box on the coffee table. "That's yours. Open it."

"What."

"Go on," urges Harry, settling in place, ready to see the look on Eggsy's face.

Gingerly picking the box up with one hand, Eggsy takes the shark off his lap with the other and hands it to Harry, "Hold my Galahad."

Harry almost chokes on his tea, "You are _not_ calling it that."

He was under the impression that it was a joke. And honestly, he was counting on Eggsy to change his mind. Don't teenagers always change their minds?

"Too late," He sets him down on Harry's lap and Harry looks down at it in disdain.

Eggsy frowns at the box. "If it was mine, why did he have it?"

"He who?" Harry pathetically bids his time, mind working on overdrive.

Eggsy sends him a sharp knowing look. "The bloke who just tried to kiss you."

Harry chokes on tea with the hopes that Eggsy will drop this line of questioning in sympathy. But alas, the boy sees right through it. Begrudging pride is a wondrous thing.

"He's a subordinate at work, Eggsy. Nothing more. He was delivering something for me. He simply happened to be drunk as well."

Eggsy scoffs, "Delivery, yeah, at this time of the night."

"It's a very important delivery, if you'd just open it and see," Harry counters, coaxing.

Persistent, Eggsy barrels on, "So if he wasn't drunk, would you have let him?"

"Let him what?"

"Let him kiss you," Eggsy questions bluntly.

" _No._ Don't be ridiculous."

This whole thing reminds him of interrogation-resistance training. It was a hellish week of torture. Literally.

"Why not?" Eggsy challenges. It's absolutely preposterous.

"Lots of reasons, Eggsy," He mutters, "Much too young for a start."

Eggsy closes his mouth before rushing back with determination, "What do you mean _young_? He's like in his early twenties. Yvonne Jansen is like fifteen."

Taken aback, Harry questions, "What does Yvonne Jansen have to do with me?"

"Well, she likes you. Obviously."

Ah. It all makes sense now.

He's jealous.

"Eggsy," He starts gently, setting down the mug on the coffee table, "I have no interest in Miss Jansen whatsoever."

"But she-" Eggsy stammers halfway, "--she's really cool, you know."

Harry raises his eyebrows, laying it thick on the sarcasm, "Oh _yes_ , so cool. So..wow. Just what I look for, Eggsy."

Eggsy's face crumbles with embarrassment, yet somehow he keeps on arguing, "She's really fit and _ladylike_ at the same time. Also, she's a dancer! Did you know that? She trained for ballet since she was a kid, but of course, now she likes them hip-hop stuff better--the point is she's _flexible and stuff_ and--"

Harry hits him with the shark. "Eggsy, don't be crude."

"Isn't Yvonne Jansen the dream, though?"

It all genuinely feels like a test, and the way Eggsy observes him adds to the possibility.

Harry sighs. "For old, disturbing men with egotistical issues, maybe. But not for me, Eggsy."

"...Oh." Eggsy's hands mindlessly fiddles with the box. And Harry finds that watching them makes him calmer. It helps with what he's about to say next.

"So please, do not hesitate to pursue whoever you wish."

Eggsy startles, looking up at him.

Harry continues on, remembering Michelle's words, and tries to be what Eggsy needs. "Don't let anyone stop you..." He trails off, prematurely running out of inspirational advice before hastily adding, "Unless of course she doesn't want you to pursue her, then do back off." Honestly, Harry wouldn't know why anybody would reject Eggsy, just the thought of it makes him defensive.

"Uhh..."

Harry rolls his eyes. "There's no need to hide it from me, Eggsy. You're terribly being obvious about it. All you do is talk about Miss Jansen."

There's a heavy moment of silence and Harry finds that he can't quite look at him.

Eggsy starts laughing hysterically. "Oh, man. Christ. _Harry_."

Harry regards him with a bit of concern.

"I'm not into Jansen," Eggsy insists, "Goddamn."

"Whatever you say, Eggsy," Harry huffs, starting to become quite miffed at this conversation. How stupid does this boy think him to be? He remembers being around teenagers during his own time. The hard-to-get techniques, the frivolous denials, the frustrating dances around each other.

Harry had always wanted to set them on fire. He can't believe he has to be around it again through Eggsy.

"You don't believe me!"

"Do you remember when I asked you about your cologne while you were finishing up with laundry?" Harry raises an eyebrow.

After a few seconds of silence, Eggsy only face-palms, chagrined.

"That's what I thought."

Determination settles on Eggsy's expression. "You know what, _no_. This is the perfect chance to tell you."

"Tell me what?"

Eggsy takes a deep breath and puts the box back on the coffee table. Harry can't even begin to protest because Eggsy fully turns towards him, blurting out in a rush, "The real reason why I smelled all weird that day was 'cos I was training."

"...Training for what?" Harry asks slowly.

"Massage." Eggsy tries to keep his head up, doing his best not to be ashamed. "I was mixing the oils and they spilled on me and stuff."

Mind going blank, Harry can only stare back, blinking.

Eggsy frowns, accusing. "You don't believe me."

"No, I--"

"Put your legs up," he orders, patting the sofa.

"...What?" Harry stares at him oddly.

"I'mma show you, come on. Don't your legs hurt from running?" He coaxes.

"No, I believe you," Harry hastily says, clutching the Ikea shark. 

_'I truly do, I simply didn't know what to do with this information--Why are you telling me this?'_

"Don't you trust me? Come on," Eggsy beckons.

Harry sighs. Why is this boy so ridiculous? Why can't Harry simply resist?

Narrowing his eyes in clear suspicion, he puts his legs up. Eggsy brightens.

"M'kay, I'mma show you the light, Haz," He promises, pulling on the sleeves of his sweatshirt until they go up near his elbows. Eggsy's hands hover over his socked feet, and Harry doesn't remember being this nervous in a civilian setting before. "Don't worry, I've got some professional training in. Sort of."

Eggsy's hands stops right above his ankles. "Wait, I should be asking permission before I touch you, shouldn't I?"

They stare at each other for a moment, and Harry waits, ready to reject him. Eggsy squints. "I won't ask, you'll probably just say no."

Harry starts to chide him. "Eggsy, matters of consent are--" He grits his teeth as Eggsy's hands sweep under his calves through his pyjamas.

" _Shit_ , you are _so_ tense," Eggsy announces, astonished. Harry's initial protests weakens as Eggsy goes on berating him, red with what is most likely indignation, "Two and a half fucking hours, you are so _stupid_. How are you a grown man? Responsible adult, my arse."

There is a reason as to why Merlin has long since given up on recommending proper de-stressing activities such as professional massage. Civilian practitioners would see the array of scars on his skin, and while Kingsman has invested quite a bit for spa-like relaxation facilities, the truth is simply this: Harry doesn't like being touched.

But he only watches as Eggsy works and tries not to let on how uncomfortable he is, tries not to twitch and react. Eggsy appears genuinely irate at Harry's current state, lip curling in concentration.

Once again, it occurs to him that this boy cares about him. The idea of it is quite mind-boggling. Worse are what Harry wants to tell him in assurance. Like how even three hours of constant physical movement is _nothing_ in the field. Like how he shouldn't worry, because Harry has been through so much worse. Like how silly he is for even worrying about him in the first place because of what he does for a living.

Harry realises then, how much he wants to tell him.

But he can't.

And there's that deep melancholy resignation settling in deep within him.

"Can you go harder?" Harry finds himself asking.

Eggsy stills, but when he looks up at Harry there's a pleased smirk on his face. "I don't know, _can_ I?"

Harry huffs. It's ridiculous, how proud he is of Eggsy having caught him with his own devices. "Will you?"

Eggsy bites down on his lower lip-- _infuriating, incorrigible_ \--before pressing down harder with his ministrations on Harry's legs.

Leaning further back on the armrest of the sofa, Harry reaches for the tea on the coffee table. Miraculously, it's still warm.

"So that's it then?" Eggsy starts from nowhere. "'Cos he's young and not 'cos he's a bloke?"

Too relaxed now, it takes awhile for Harry to figure out what he's talking about, and the mere thought of Mordred makes him purse his lips. "He's young, he's impressionable; I'm technically his superior. There are billions of people in this planet, I'm not going to sort them by genitals or gender. Honestly, I'm just not interested." He sips at his tea.

"Cool," Eggsy swallows.

Harry tilts his head. He finds himself reaching out with the mug, silently urging him to take it and have a drink.

Except that when Eggsy catches sight of it, he only inches closer inbetween Harry's legs and leans further forward to touch his mouth against the rim, his hands unrelenting in his clutch on Harry's calves.

Harry finds himself out of breath.

This boy is getting terribly spoiled, and Harry can only tip the mug so he can drink from it. This is a problem, he realises. Harry can't stop. How far would he go in indulging him?

Does Eggsy even know how spoiled he is?

Eggsy pushes harder against the mug, and Harry pulls it back. Eggsy turns towards his own shoulder to wipe at his mouth before focusing back down on his massage, gruffly saying his thanks.

Harry drinks more tea, finding himself quite thirsty. "Eggsy. You should stop."

"No."

"You still haven't opened the box, Eggsy," Harry tries, putting the empty mug back on the coffee table.

"It'll still be there tomorrow," He argues, strong hands running over sore muscles. Harry holds back a hiss. "You, on the other hand. Fucking--two and a half hours. Honestly."

Harry huffs. This boy doesn't know what he's capable of.

"...I mean I've seen you take on a bunch of people, clearly outnumbered..."

Harry stills, realising it. _Yes._ Yes _,_ Eggsy _has seen him_. The more Eggsy will think about it and reminisce, he will ultimately grasp the reality that Harry's dangerous. And then he'll stop, finally recognising that he's in a dangerous man's house at three in the morning, all alone with him, and it will dawn on Eggsy any moment now and Eggsy will--

"...You could tell me you've killed people for fuck's sake..." Eggsy goes on, frowning, and Harry tries not to go completely rigid. "...and I'd probably believe you, but--"

"What?" Harry stares at him, stunned.

Eggsy rolls his eyes, huffing. "The point is, there's no need to overwork yourself. I mean, two and a half fucking hours. Geez. There's working out, and then there's killing yourself. You're technically on a holiday."

Harry settles back down, keeping his gaze fixed on the ceiling in absolute disbelief.

 _He doesn't mean that_ , Harry thinks, _He can't possibly be so nonchalant about it if he knew it was true._

"It's time for bed, Eggsy."

"Is it? You wanna go already?" Harry can't possibly be imagining the disappointment in his tone. Why would he? "I wanted to show you my skills."

"You must jest, I feel better already," Harry murmurs.

It's staggering, how Harry knows the moment Eggsy smiles without looking.

He should have turned the radiator on, maybe that would have prevented the wave of goosebumps on his skin.

Thankfully, Eggsy stops his movements, and Harry can hear him huff, hedging on something.

"Yes?" He prompts.

"You know what you said about words? About asking for things..."

"...Yes." Harry keeps his eyes on the ceiling.

Eggsy swallows.

"...Can I ask for--for a hug?"

"I don't know, can you?" Harry automatically replies, grateful for the easy way out.

"Ugh," Eggsy mutters some unintelligible curses under his breath, " _May_ I ask for a hug?"

"Well, yes. Yes, you may _ask_ for a hug."

"...Fuckin'--Don't fucking _wordplay_ me right now--" Eggsy's frustration is real, and so is his humiliation, Harry can hear quite clearly. And the guilt plagues at him then.

It's Harry's fault that he's like this in the first place. Lee is dead and that's why Michelle never had any personal time, why Eggsy is deprived of physical attention and--

He senses Eggsy start to move to leave, and Harry--

"Come," He says, unbuckling the sling on his arm.

"What?" Eggsy challenges, mulish.

"Come," Harry beckons him, finally looking.

Despite his strong front, Eggsy's mouth slightly shakes. It's barely there, but it gives him away. And Harry feels as if he's been stabbed in the stomach at the sight. And he knows what that feels like, he's been stabbed there before.

He finds himself ridiculously gripping the shark before handing it over as a peace-offering.

Eggsy only keeps his clutch on the blanket, clearly suspicious, and Harry knows he's made a grave mistake; Eggsy had finally stepped out of his comfort zone to finally ask for something, and Harry had deliberately sabotaged him. How will Eggsy ask anything of him again?

Taking the shark, Eggsy dubiously watches him as he makes his way closer. Harry doesn't move, letting Eggsy ever so slowly come over and crawl inbetween his legs. His hesitation ultimately makes him stop, and Harry silently reaches for him. Releasing a shaky breath, Eggsy goes further, plastering himself against him and hiding his face against the crook of Harry's neck.

They only breathe in silence for a moment.

"Fuck you," Eggsy mumbles against Harry's skin, bitter. "Why d'you have to be such a tease?"

_I didn't mean to._

"I'm sorry," He murmurs instead, cradling the back of Eggsy's head. Eggsy shudders, and Harry takes the chance to adjust the blanket to cover him.

Eggsy eventually helps, moving to cover them both--and the shark--before moving back to settle against Harry, gripping at the lapel on his robe. It's almost as if he's holding on, ready for the possibility that Harry would change his mind.

It was a bad idea to begin with, Harry knows. Perhaps the boy is searching for a father figure, and maybe he might get too attached with that sentiment in mind.

But Harry only sighs, moving to wrap his left arm around Eggsy's waist and lay his right hand on the nape of his neck, fingers absently stroking at the short hair. Eggsy nuzzles at him, making a small noise.

"G'night, Harry," He eventually says. And Harry realises this possibly couldn't end in any other way than falling asleep here, tangled up against each other. But then, he supposes, if he really needed to, he could carry him upstairs and tuck him in his bed in the guest room, even with his arm as it is.

If he really _needed_ to.

"Goodnight, Eggsy," Harry mouths against his hair.

"G'night, Galahad," Eggsy sleepily mumbles.

Harry keeps his mouth shut.

_Goodnight._

They stay that way until the very few remaining lights in the far back of the room automatically turn off, leaving them in the dark. They stay that way until they fall asleep, the sound of the rain outside seemingly sheltering them from the world.

 

\--»

 

It's only nine in the morning, which is pretty early for someone on a summer break, but fuck that--Eggsy is on fucking fire and he does jumping jacks around the house, feeling the energy surging through him.

First of all, Harry doesn't mind blokes apparently, and he also ain't interested in Yvonne Jansen _or_ that guy from last night. Second, Eggsy's still not over the fact that Harry bought him a telly and everything else to go with it. Third, fucking _yes_ , despite everything good that already happened yesterday, from breakfast to films and dinner and getting to hold Harry's hand via morse code reasons, it ended up even being _better_ than he could have ever possibly imagined. Cuddling to sleep is some _good. fucking. shit_.

Eleven over ten, would do again. Fucking _yes_.

He may have woken up alone, but he remembers waking up earlier, complaining as Harry pulled away, and he ended up with his hair being fucking petted for what seemed like forever before Harry said he had to go do some errands and--fucking _yes_. Some good shit right there.

Eggsy does some push-ups on the living room floor.

It could have been easily a dream, but there was a note on the coffee table reading, ' _Errands. Will come back with breakfast._ '

And Eggsy is still on fucking fire when he dials up Quinlan, filled to the brim with excitement.

"I have a fucking chance," he tells him right away, adjusting the bluetooth headset that came with his mobile.

" _On what?_ "

The headset connection seems pretty low quality at the moment, so maybe that's why Quinlan sounds weird.

"I'm going through with it, I--" He halts, frowning, "Was that a gunshot? Are you watching an action film?"

" _Maybe,_ " Quinlan hedges, begrudging.

"You don't like action films, you Swiss-French snob," Eggsy crows, teasing, "What are you watching? James Bond?"

Quinlan hisses. " _One could say that._ "

"Must be some date if you're willing to suffer--Wait, why are you out of breath? Please don't tell me you're having a fuck with James Bond in the background." Eggsy scrunches his nose.

" _Trust me, I don't have any fucks left to give. Especially for Mr. Bond,_ " He enunciates, sharp. " _And the fact that you think I would answer the phone during, honestly--_ "

"Okay, well, speaking on the subject," Eggsy looks around the place, double-checking. He doesn't sense Harry anywhere, but just in case--"How should I start practicing?"

" _Practicing for what?_ "

"Well, you know," Eggsy stalls awkwardly. Quinlan is so fucking smart, Eggsy's pretty sure he only pretends to be dumb to torture him. "How many fingers should I start with?" He blurts out.

" _What the fu--_ " Quinlan's raging reaction gets muffled and Eggsy tries not to be embarrassed. Quinlan comes back, quiet in his venomous hissing. " _Why in the world would you ask me that?_ "

"It's not like I'm gonna ask Roxy, fucking hell. Come on, I'm pretty sure you've done lots of things in the name of science," He whines, settling down on the floor again to do some basic gymnastic stretches. "Help a bruv out."

" _Fucking--_ one _. One fucking finger, how is this not common sense?_ "

"Okay, but like, all through out? Just one session? Or do I--"

" _Fucking work your way up, what the bloody fuck, I can't believe I'm having this conversation right now._ "

"Okay wait, wait, don't hang up," Eggsy tries to calm him down. Suddenly, an idea strikes him. "Can I fit a banana into my mouth, do you think?"

" _Fucking--_ "

"Like, I'm scared, alright? It's intimidating. And I always thought that shit was nasty but I can live, I can do it for Harry." He tries to do some breathing exercises as he tries to reach further past his toes, concentrating hard. "I think I'll get around to liking it if he gives me time--"

"If who gives you time?" asks Harry.

" ** _Fuck_** ," both Quinlan and Eggsy manage to say, and Eggsy immediately lets go of his stretch, pulling back way too fast. "Fuck, Haz," He exclaims in pain and humiliation. "I think you just gave me a cramp, Jesus."

" _Are you at his place right now?_ " Quinlan questions, accusing.

"Oh, you're on a call," Harry seems to realise. "My apologies."

Trying to get his breath back, Eggsy rolls on the floor, turning to face a fully suited Harry who's on his way to the dining room and presumably the kitchen considering he has a few bags, most of them clearly from Marks & Spencer. _The posh fuck_ , Eggsy can't help but think fondly.

" _Eggsy--_ "

"Oi, you went out for some groceries, did you get me bananas?" He calls out.

" _Eggsy, **what the fuck** \--shit, I have to go._"

"Me too, Quin. Cheers," He mutters, taking off his headset and making his way to follow. There's a paper bag on the dining table, but the rest of the bags are on the counter next to Harry by the sink. Eggsy tries to tamp down the anxiety as he heads straight for him.

"Errands, did you really have to wear a suit for it?" He does his best to be confident and casual as he smoothly wraps his arms around Harry's waist. "Also, where'd your sling go?"

He's grateful at the fact that Harry barely even gets halfway to rigid before relaxing. "Hung it at the coat-rack."

It was all a fraction of a second at best, and Eggsy smiles against Harry's padded shoulder before propping his chin on it. "You want me to hang your suit jacket for you? You don't wanna mess it up, yeah?"

Harry hums, considering, and Eggsy waits, fingers lightly playing with the buttons of his suit as he keeps at his offer. "I'll get a coat hanger and everything."

"If it's not too much trouble, I suppose," Harry muses, continuing in whatever he's doing. Eggsy tries not to get riled up as he carefully goes on, blindly unbuttoning Harry's suit jacket, slow. He absolutely does _not_ feel him up as he gently eases it off Harry's shoulders. Most of it's accidental, swear down.

"Thank you, Eggsy."

"Mhm." He quietly goes to find a coat hanger in the guest room all the way upstairs, and goes back down to neatly hook it up on the coat-rack in the foyer.

When he gets back to the kitchen, Harry is lightly shaking the water off a pack of--

Eggsy scrunches his nose, repelled. "What are you planning to do with them tomatoes?"

"Cherry tomatoes, Eggsy. And they are to be eaten. They're healthy."

How Harry manages to find one of the very few things that Eggsy fucking hates to eat is beyond him. "Please don't say that's what you meant by breakfast," He groans, getting the plates out. He's pretty sure that breakfast is the one in the paper bag on the table. "Tell me you got bacon. Also bananas."

"Bananas weren't on the list," Harry huffs. "And we've had bacon at least three times this week."

Eggsy whines as he makes his way to set the table. "Is the love gone? Is that it, Haz?"

Harry chuckles, calling after him, "What ever happened to--what was it--' _health and nutrition go hand in hand_ '?"

What the fuck? How does he remember that? That was so long ago. Does he only remember things that only serve to bite Eggsy in the arse?

Squinting, Eggsy corrects him and recites, "' _Nutrition and fitness_ go hand in hand _.'_ "

Harry huffs. "Cherry tomatoes are good, Eggsy. Come, try it."

Eggsy scoffs and sneers, unpacking boxes from the paper bag. "The only way that's going into my mouth is if you put it there."

Mortified, he stops, realising what he's said. He haltingly turns to find Harry with eyebrows raised as he slowly turns to face him as well.

Oh no.

"No," He tries too late; Harry is already making his way over from the kitchen with the small container of tomatoes.

Eggsy wants to scream his head off.

_I don't care how fucking kinky this shit is and how much it's gonna turn me on, fucking--tomatoes._

"This should be a lesson."

Eggsy manages to give him an unamused look. "You and your lessons, honestly. You were my teacher for like two weeks."

"A lesson," Harry insists, picking a tomato and scrutinising it. "On thinking carefully, and how you shouldn't say things you do not mean."

The table digs against the back of Eggsy's thighs as he pathetically tries to get away from the tomato that Harry is holding at least a foot away from him.

Harry huffs, amused, "How about this, for every cherry tomato you eat, you get a reward."

 _Like a kiss?_  Eggsy chews on his lip and challenges, "Like what, a piece of bacon?"

"Don't be ridiculous. I'll give you two for each. I'm feeling quite magnanimous." He starts to hover it inches away from Eggsy's mouth.

Eggsy regards him and the tomato with absolute disdain, gritting his teeth and keeping his mouth closed.

It's too fucking cold in this damn place to feel like sweating but _jesus fuck_. Harry raises his eyebrows as he lightly touches the tomato against Eggsy's mouth, expectant.

Baring his teeth, Eggsy can't help but open when Harry's mouth parts--and now the fucking cherry tomato is in his fucking mouth and--

Harry opens his own mouth fractionally wider in encouragement, and Eggsy finds himself biting down the moment Harry does.

The fucking taste of it _bursts_ on his tongue and _fuck_ \--Eggsy makes a face, shaking his head.

"Ah, ah," Harry chides, putting a tomato in his own mouth. He starts to chew, hand lightly coming up on Eggsy's jaw, fingers feeling the movement on his cheek.

Eggsy shudders. Suddenly, he realises- _-this is fucking payback for yesterday_. Jesus fucking christ. That's what this is. What he's doing with his mouth, coaxing him, it's practically a parody of last night--Holy shit, Harry Hart is vindictive as fuck.

"I knew it," Eggsy accuses, chewing with absolute scorn. "You're a fucking sadist."

"I have no idea what you're on about," Harry murmurs innocently, already having finished with his fucking demon fruit-vegetable or whatever the fuck a tomato is supposed to be. His eyes are still fixed on the movement of Eggsy's jaw and the fingers on it.

Eggsy has to keep at being indignant or he's gonna fucking groan like the weak piece of shit that he is, and so he hisses at him, "The difference between tomatoes and popcorn is that popcorn actually tastes _good_ , Harry."

He swallows the last of it down and Harry gives that little proud smile before ruffling Eggsy's hair and turning away.

"I want my bloody bacon!" He calls after him.

"As you wish."

Eggsy continues on getting the boxes out of the paper bag, trying to distract himself.

Most of what Harry's bought are waffles and freshly baked pastries, which are honestly more than enough--so it's pretty unbelievable how Harry actually goes through with it, the effort and the mess of cooking two fucking pieces of bacon.

He does a double-take at Harry's apron--"Where the hell have you been hiding that?"

"I haven't been hiding it," Harry huffs. "I merely have it securely stowed away."

 

»»

 

Apparently, Harry has a medical appointment later, so he doesn't feel too bad about Yvonne Jansen's party. Honestly, Eggsy had mostly forgotten about it for the past week. And if it came down to being home with Harry and going out for it, there isn't really a choice. But again--Harry has an appointment and what else would Eggsy do?

Hmm. Yeah, right... _what else_.

Eggsy takes a quick shower and switches into his last pair of clean sweats before taking his chance to sit on the sofa, joining Harry in reading a book. Eggsy doesn't know why they're not watching the telly, honestly, but Eggsy doesn't mind.

"Hey, Haz," Eggsy casually manages, the tips of his socked feet prodding at the side of Harry's thigh.

Heavily into his own book, Harry can only hum in question.

"You know those condoms you offered me?" Eggsy keeps his eyes on the page, but he senses Harry go still anyway. Jesus. He's not gonna make this awkward, is he? It was terrible the last time.

"What of it?" Harry's tone is blank.

"Did that come with lube or nah?" Eggsy raises the book to hide most of his face. _Fucking hell._ He was doing so good, now he wants to die again.

There's only silence, and Eggsy prods him with his foot again, except this time Harry has a grip on his ankle. Not enough to hurt, but it's tight. "Why? Do you need it?"

So many questions, goddamn. Why doesn't he just offer it to him again?

"Maybe. Why? Was it a one-time offer only?" He jokingly asks.

"...Maybe," Harry mutters lowly.

Eggsy gapes, putting the book down. "What did you do with them? There were like three sizes, two of each!"

"So you _do_ need it?" Harry asks him, eyebrow raised.

Eggsy doesn't whine and just purses his lips. "No."

He doesn't need it, that's fine. Guess he'll try fucking himself some other time then. Jesus.

That's fine, he wanted to procrastinate on that anyway.

Harry's hold on his ankle softens, and he probably doesn't know what he's doing when he runs his thumb in a circle over the bone. "Eggsy," He starts, sounding pained. "If you need it..."

Rolling his eyes, Eggsy denies it vehemently. "No, I don't."

"Eggsy--"

"Hey!" He cuts him off with enthusiastic babble. "Where's that box you said was mine? Where is it? I woke up this morning and it was gone."

"I'll go get it." When he leaves, Eggsy takes a deep breath and tries to exhale the fucking shame away.

Harry comes back and hands it to him before settling down on the sofa, facing Eggsy.

"Go on, open the box."

Eggsy grumbles as he does, wondering what it could possibly be.

"What the hell?" Eggsy stares in shock.

"Mhm."

He looks up to find Harry watching him, and Eggsy's heart goes fucking _mental_.

"But you--you said it was an atrocity and whoever would buy it commits the greatest crime?" He weakly prompts.

Harry shoots him a dry look. "Why do you think I didn't personally go out to get it?"

"Why does it have a hood? I didn't think they had this version?"

"Well," Harry clears his throat. "Due to the nature of the weather, I had it altered."

"Altered?"

"I had a trusted professional to add a light water-resistant thermal fabric for the inner-lining, and a hood as well--for the rain," Harry explains, laid-back.

Eggsy still gapes.

"...Harry."

"Mmm?"

"I sent you that text on Wednesday, early evening," Eggsy starts, slow.

"Mhm?"

"This delivery of yours, it got here almost three in the morning. On Friday." Eggsy can't even imagine the person who worked on this, who the fuck they are, and what superpowers they have to have gotten this done that quickly.

Harry goes back to his own book. "...Perks of being in the tailoring industry, I suppose."

"Harry..." Eggsy shakes his head. Fucking hell. He's getting emotional over a hideous Adidas zip-hoodie. "You're bonkers you know that? I meant it when I said it was hideous," Eggsy tries for humour.

"I suppose it'll be your last resort," says Harry, a little smirk at the corner of his mouth.

"I'mma wear it at Jansen's party tonight," Eggsy decides.

Harry stops, turning to stare at him. "Party?"

"Yeah, I know I almost forgot myself!" He stands up, shrugging it on. "What do you think? You think anyone's gonna come near me if I wear this?"

"Wear it," Harry says immediately.

Eggsy laughs. "I'mma be that bloke no one talks to at the party."

"Well, that way it'll weed out the crowd, won't it?" Harry distractedly tells him, regarding the jacket with a critical look.

"Weed out?" Eggsy questions.

"If they judge you by your looks and your attire alone, it is their loss that they simply didn't take the effort to get to know you better--They don't deserve you," Harry murmurs, and it's probably one of his life-lessons, but Eggsy ridiculously melts at it regardless. He's so fucking _gone_ for Harry Hart.

"Text me when you're done with your appointment, yeah?" He tells him before making his way upstairs to figure out what else to wear.

Yvonne Jansen isn't really a threat anymore. But he's going to her party not only 'cos it's the cool thing to do, but he's gonna go 'cos he's gonna wear the clothes that Harry bought for him. From his shoes, his trousers, his shirt and his jacket, it's all gonna be Harry. And in a way, he'll be rubbing it to her like that. Quietly, of course. Which is petty, he knows. But it's not like he can ever tell anyone. This is the only enjoyment he'll get.

 

\--»

 

Harry leaves the house at sixteen-thirty and habitually sketches random nothings in his small leather notebook on the cab to Savile Row.

The rain still pours, relentless. It hasn't stopped for hours. It's mildly worrying. Parts of the streets are already a few inches deep in water. Through the window, he sees miserable people walking through it, getting their socks and the cuffs of their trouser-legs wet.

Despite their appointment, Merlin is busy when Harry gets to HQ. Something about the state of international security. Which is understandable, of course. Merlin has many responsibilities.

Harry tries not to get impatient. Worse, he tries not to get terribly bored. He mindlessly sketches before realising all he ends up with are ambiguous scribbles and shadings. Like he always has since he's started taking it up again. Perhaps it's simply nerves.

Harry has been waiting for two hours when he contacts Merlin. And while busy, Merlin manages to pick up, just to yell at him, saying to have someone else supervise it, and there's nothing Harry can do but refuse and wait.

He has to tell Merlin about Eggsy. And it has to be done today. There's no telling when Mordred would start babbling.

 

\--»

 

"Gary Unwin," Yvonne croons at the sight of him. "Seems you've taken my advice at dressing uglier." She smiles sweetly, and Eggsy huffs, unzipping his jacket as he enters her posh flat in Hammersmith.

The party's clearly started already and it's only seven in the evening. The only reason it's dark outside is because it's been raining non-stop and it doesn't seem to be stopping anytime soon.

She eyes him up and down. "Would you like me to take your jacket off? I can go hang it up somewhere."

Eggsy sucks in his cheek, barely even hiding his smirk the way he knows that drives the girls fucking mad. "I think I'll wait till it gets real hot in here."

 

\--»

 

Even though he hopes that he won't run into Arthur, Harry still wanders around HQ. It feels quite odd--almost like déjà vu. Which doesn't make sense. It's all familiar, of course, and for a legitimate reason. This has been his life for decades. And yet.

He can't quite shake off the bizarre sensation.

He finds Amelia in R&D, and tries to get filled in on the atmosphere these past few weeks and the division's current developments.

"Frankly, I'm quite surprised to not have seen you around, Agent Galahad," She tells him, busy with multi-tasking.

"I'm injured," Harry states needlessly.

She chuckles. "You've been injured worse and practically lived here, regardless. You have a record, you know. Everyone's well-aware of it. But at least it's better this way, I suppose. Medical personnel can actually get some peace--God knows Nimueh and Morgana always complain enough about stubborn, entitled agents--"

Amelia stops in her rambling and sniffs. She narrows her eyes, then breaks into a suspicious smile, "Is that bacon?"

He attempts to distract her, picking up a vial from her workstation. Amelia bares her teeth.

Harry slowly puts it back down. "What does it do?"

She scowls, but she can't stay at it for long as she goes on about her work, which she clearly loves, "This altered amnesia dart formula here, it's not quite finalised yet, but hopefully we get some field testing done--then it can be authorised to replace the ones currently in wide use within a year or so."

"What's the difference?"

"Longer time-frame depending on dosage--What do you think about an altered Rainmaker? With swords instead of projectiles?" She asks him, eager, ready to jot down notes on her clipboard.

If Amelia Hooper and Roxanne Morton ever meet, they would probably get along quite well, Harry thinks.

 

\--»

 

Ryan finally gets to the party and Eggsy is so fucking chuffed that he doesn't have to deal with these other people. Most of them are from Holland Park, yeah. But the thing is, they always wore uniforms at school, so now, given the chance, all they do is show off with their real clothes and talk about it.

Like, okay, first of all, Eggsy's attire is great. People acknowledge that, hell, they even ask about it. But Eggsy's clothes are even better for reasons they don't understand. It's not only 'cos of the brand and the uniqueness or whatever shit they use to compliment him. Eggsy's clothes are the best 'cos Harry bought them for him.

The worst part is he can't tell anyone about it, so it isn't long until he quietly holds a grudge despite all his laughter and winking.

"Ryan, mate, bless your fucking soul."

"You drinking, Gaz?"

"I'm doing my fucking best not to," He mutters, flipping his mobile on repeat.

Still no messages.

 

\--»

 

"When will I be done with this sling on my arm business?" Harry grouses.

It's almost twenty-one hundred and Merlin's only just come in. This was all supposed to be done a few hours ago and Harry was supposed to have texted Eggsy.

"Tardiness," Merlin begins, "It gets on people's nerves doesn't it? How does it feel being on the other side, Galahad?"

Other than that, Merlin ignores Harry, going on to briefly converse with the nurse before scrutinising his clipboard. He begins double-checking everything, prodding at Harry. And Harry tries to keep his patience, deciding to turn on one of the screens for some news as a distraction.

All his complaints go silent when he realises just how deep in shit London is. It has been raining for the past few days and now it seems to have finally reached its peak. Parts of London are _flooded_. It _has_ been flooded since a few hours ago, disrupting public transportation and other routine services.

Harry mindlessly worries at the skin under his watch, finding himself quite heavy and alert at the same time.

"Kingsman prefers their agents fully functional," Merlin finally tells him, short, cutting through his thoughts. "We have an influx of those; Younger agents, eager to please, still fearful of the order not to disregard orders."

Harry regards him for a moment. He has to tell Merlin. _He has to._

However, to have it perfectly executed, that would require an hour at least, merely to build up to that conversation, and about three hours more to drudge through it all over drinks and insults---and Harry has braced himself for that. He _was_ ready.

But this weather.

_How will Eggsy get home safe?_

He leans back in his chair, already decided.

"Maybe you should--" He hesitates properly.

Merlin takes the bait.

"Maybe I should what?" He prompts, suspicious.

"Maybe you should take me off from honeypot missions from here on out," Harry declares.

There's a long beat of silence and he feels the weight of Merlin's stare on him.

"What?"

"...Give it to the younger agents," Harry sighs, weary. "I'm almost fifty for hell's sake."

"So? You're old, Galahad, not decrepit," Merlin argues before he stops. "Unless--Is that...are you..."

Harry lets him struggle. It's odd how he doesn't feel any shame. At least not for the right reasons a man accused of erectile dysfunction would be.

"Galahad."

"Merlin."

"Are you...having _issues_?"

Harry waits for a few seconds, slightly shifting in his seat. "No comment."

It's technically not lying.

Not telling him the real reason why Harry couldn't fuck Arabella Worthington as ordered also isn't lying.

She had touched him, and he had touched her back despite how wrong it had felt. That was his job. And he was good at it.

He had kissed her hand and kissed her arm and kissed up to her neck, his hand sweeping over the low line of her dress until his fingers had slipped underneath to push the narrow sleeve of her dress off her shoulder.

Her nails had sunk at the nape of his neck and usually that was fine. It wasn't anything new for honeypot-type missions. But it had only made him feel worse, especially when her other hand had pulled at his belt, the hook catching at the holes every other torturous inch. It wasn't long until her hand had slipped under his trousers, and during that moment---

He couldn't explain it.

He couldn't possibly explain how in his mind's eye he saw Eggsy--the way he was when Harry left him after being short and rude and surly. The way Eggsy had tried to hide his hurt and disappointment, the way he tried to be strong and detached and cold, the way he had exhaled, almost shaky, and the way he had shuddered against him during Harry's measly apology, clutching at the overcoat on his back, angry and resentful.

Harry had felt sick to the core. And he couldn't. He couldn't have done it. It was easier to kill her.

"Is that it?" Harry asks quietly.

"Yes, everything seems to be looking fine, Galahad. Steady road to recovery--So please, don't do anything _rash_ ," Merlin sends him a stern look, "Keep your sling on for another week, then come back for your next appointment. You might just get what you wish for."

Harry nods absently.

Merlin looks at him strangely. "Is there anything else?"

Harry blinks at him. "Not at the moment--no. Very soon, I imagine. But--priorities...If you'll excuse me."

 

»

 

Taking his glasses off, Harry makes his way, striding through the halls with purpose, but not enough to be obvious about it. It ultimately becomes less crowded as he goes on, nearing the way to the underground transports. He can't initiate calling Eggsy, no, the surveillance system still operates here.

His mind goes on overdrive as he tries to plan it out. Eggsy had mentioned that the party was somewhere in Hammersmith.

Surely the flooding can't be that bad in that area? Surely Eggsy has enough money to pay for a cab?

But London would be short on cabs tonight and the competition for it would be strong. Harry could call him a cab, however--

"Agent Galahad."

Harry slows down in his walk, feeling a calming _lethal_ chill wash over him.

He turns, greeting politely, "Mycroft Holmes."

"We have _much_ to talk about."

"I have matters to tend to," He tells him, head held high.

"I know. I overheard," Mycroft nods, a small closed-mouth smile on his features. "Therefore, I know this is a conversation that would interest you greatly."

Harry's mobile vibrates, and Harry's left hand twitches, out of his control.

Mycroft raises his eyebrows. "Interesting. Good timing, your... _priorities_ have."

Harry does nothing, remaining motionless.

Rolling his eyes, Mycroft huffs, taking a few steps back. "Well, go on. Take it. I'll wait."

Harry shouldn't. Harry shouldn't do it.

And so he lets it go on.

\--Until it vibrates for what seems like the last time.

Keeping his face blank, Harry answers his mobile, waiting in silence.

" _'Ello?_ "

Harry takes a long quiet breath. "...Yes."

Eggsy's voice is loud over the background noise of music and chattering of people. " _You okay?_ "

_No._

He keeps his eyes on Mycroft who's mildly staring back. "...Yes."

" _You sure? Sorry, I'm dumb--I just--_ " Eggsy gets further away from the noise, but the sound of rain becomes louder. " _I dunno. I got worried? I thought you'd be done by now._ "

"I am--now. Just."

" _Oh--well,_ " Eggsy exhales, near shuddering. It's almost as if Harry can feel just how cold he is. And he wants to make it better for him. He wants to keep him warm. " _London's gone to shite? And uhh--_ "

" _Oi! Gary, what are you doing there?_ " A familiar feminine voice demands. " _Come here where it's warm!_ "

" _Jansen, honestly--Look, Ha--_ " Eggsy coughs. " _Look, babe--I was just making sure you're okay and--_ "

" _What the fuck, Gary, do you have a girlfriend after all?_ " Yvonne crows.

" _Shut your--_ " Eggsy hisses, going away before coming back, " _\--Err, look, I don't think I can make it home. Tube's gone down and--_ "

"-- _Yeah, yeah! Tube's gone down and your boyfriend's gonna be in my bedroom~~_ " Yvonne Jansen singsongs, laughing, and Harry grips at his mobile.

" _No, I fucking ain't. Oh my god--_ " Eggsy protests, " _Look, babe, she's just joking, alright? And she's a bit pissed, so--_ "

Yvonne huffs, " _Yeah, yeah, I am. But seriously I've got something in the bedroom you're going to want to see. Trust. Me._ "

" _Jesus. Alright already, goddamn, just--go yeah? I'll be there just, give me a moment, I'm having a conversation here._ "

" _Sure, Gary._ " Yvonne laughs.

The sound of it settles heavy in Harry's stomach.

" _Look, sorry about that,_ " Eggsy sighs. " _As I was saying--tube's down, road's shit. Can't see anything with this rain, really. So..I just hope you make it home safe or end up at a fancy, comfortable posh hotel suite somewhere for the night. I have to stay here with some people, we're all in the same boat really--_ "

"No."

" _...Err, 'no'?_ "

"Don't fall asleep--Whatever you do...Don't fall asleep."

Despite not looking at Harry, Mycroft raises his eyebrows.

" _...Err?_ "

Harry watches as Mycroft glances at one of the spots where the surveillance camera is.

"I'll be there."

Eggsy sighs. " _Babe, no. It's fucking pouring out. And it's late--_ "

"I know. Stay where you are. I'll be there."

Mycroft still isn't looking, but he frowns, mildly uncomfortable, checking over his nails.

Eggsy takes a deep breath. " _Harry..._ "

Harry grits his teeth.

"I don't care how long it takes. I'll be there. I'll come for you."

Harry snaps his phone shut, and Mycroft finally deigns to look at him. "Well, that priority of yours is going to be waiting a very long time."

Harry levels him with a cold stare before turning around and moving further on.

"It would be very, _very_ unwise to walk away this very moment," Mycroft's tone is at the most serious that Harry's ever heard in all their acquaintance, "I know you don't trust me. But if you truly want what's best for your priority...I highly suggest you take the chance."

 

 


	20. 19

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pt.1 of the fall  
> -  
> Remember when I said all the fluff was useless?  
> ...well.  
> ............................oops...?  
> -  
> Also, extreme discomfort and agony.  
> 

 

It must have something to do with Arthur, the fact that they're somehow granted use of a helicopter out of HQ in this weather.

Despite Harry's chilling impassivity, he imagines numerous scenarios that ultimately end up with Mycroft Holmes being pushed out of it.

He grips his mobile.

"Try not to sprain something, Galahad, I'm technically giving you a lift to London,” Mycroft reasons, eyebrows chiding, “I'll do my best to hasten without compromising in the quality of information I'm about to present. After that, you are free to go. In a manner of speaking."

"Information?" Harry tilts his head a fraction, keeping his composure as he makes it clear. "There are no need for briefings, I am not taking the long-term mission."

Mycroft's mouth thins. Bizarrely enough, it almost looks like pity.

“And yet, here you are.”

 

\--

 

Eggsy's feet tap against the wooden floorboards of Yvonne Jansen's living room. While the party’s technically still on, some people are dozing off on the sofa and others are staring through the windows probably wondering if they could wing it instead.

Ryan huffs, getting frustrated. "I knew I shoulda listened to Chelsea. Jesus. Shoulda stayed with her."

"Calm down," Eggsy mutters, doing his best to be supportive and not give in to agitation. He mindlessly throws his mobile back and forth closely between his hands, ignoring the whispers in his own head.

 _Shoulda stayed at home. Shoulda waited for Harry_.

Yvonne calls the party to attention and successfully brings it back to life with a pep talk and an energised encouragement for more drinking.

It’s one that Eggsy finally gives into. He's restless, and he doesn't like it. What harm could a glass of alcohol do?

Well, really, he doesn't like to think about that.

She changes the music, turning the volume on louder, and when the [intro](https://drive.google.com/file/d/0B6aF7_1BmgYpV1RyaVdCczRoeFk/view?usp=sharing) begins, Eggsy actually snorts into his half-empty glass of whatever it is someone just whipped up like five minutes ago.

Needing to bury the heavy sensation in his stomach, he joins the crowd in their crazed dancing. It’s almost helpless how he sings along with it.

Impressed and smug, Yvonne raises her voice over the music. “You’ve been listening to my playlist, have you?”

Eggsy should be embarrassed, but this song is too fucking catchy and he smirks, only mouthing on, “ _You better realise I’m what you need, you better get here b’fore I count to three--_ ”

“-- _You better do right, I’ll fuck you up!_ ” She yells back, grinning.

It isn’t long until a crowd surrounds them, cheering and hooting as they watch him and Yvonne go over the top in acting the song out, dancing around each other.

 

\--

 

They land at London Heliport. It's on the south bank of the Thames, and a few meters directly from it is the Crowne Plaza Hotel. Harry has been here before, particularly during the times he had to attend conferences for missions or infiltrate meetings under the guise of being either MI5 or MI6.

Calculating it in his head, he's approximately four miles from Hammersmith. It should take less than thirty minutes, but with this weather issue it could definitely be more.

The hotel is short staffed and there aren't many guests in the open, upon initial observation. It's late after all, and the only view anyone would get is the pouring rain.

Harry miraculously has enough patience to wait until they go straight for one of the meeting rooms.

“How long will this take?" He questions as he takes a sweeping glance around the area. A conference table takes most of the space and a very large screen hangs twenty feet away near the back wall. Anthea stands from her seat not too far from it, holding a tablet with one hand and a small metal case with the other.

Mycroft hums as she makes her way towards them, “That depends.”

“On what?”

“If you make this easy, it shouldn't take more than an hour.”

Harry blatantly takes his mobile out.

 

_‘Two and a half hours. Traffic. Apologies.’_

 

Is it too much of him to think that Eggsy would wait up for him that long? He’s not pleased with this situation himself, but he needs to finish this once and for all.

“Glasses," Mycroft says, and Anthea opens the metal case towards Harry.

Harry takes his glasses from his inner suit pocket and places it in the box. Anthea shuts it closed and makes her way back to the end of the table.

His mobile vibrates.

Mycroft levels him with a stern look. “I should probably ask for your mobile as well, but--I can already see that's going to be more difficult. Please, take a seat.” He gestures to one of the chairs and walks towards a small table of refreshments and cakes and biscuits, “Some tea?”

“No, thank you.”

 

**20\. 07. 2007 - Excalibur:**

_I don’t mind. I’ll wait. Be careful._

 

“Coffee, perhaps?"

“No, thank you.”

Mycroft chuckles. “You do know it isn't tainted with anything? I assure you, you may indulge as you like.”

“Yes, because your assurances mean so much. If you could get to the point, Mr. Holmes?”

 

**20\. 07. 2007 - Excalibur:**

_Can I convince you to just not tho? It’s fine I swear I’m even having fun._

 

_‘No.’_

 

The smell of coffee gets stronger and Harry finds Mycroft offering him a mug. “I’m quite aware of you field agents and your feral need for caffeine. No need to hide it, it's practically on your file, your avid consumption.”

Harry stares at it, swallows. “No, thank you.”

Mycroft looks at him strangely, frowning. He extends the mug closer to Harry.

In short of flinching back, Harry grits his teeth. “Earl grey will do.”

“...Very well.”

 

\--

 

Taking a break from the wild senseless dancing, Eggsy finds that Ryan’s already managed to doze off in the corner despite all the noise. Which is probably why someone fucking took Eggsy’s drink from where he left it.

He’s trying to decide whether to get a new one or hunt it down when he suddenly realises that Harry hasn't asked for an address. Is that because he already knows where Yvonne Jansen lives or does he really just have the ability to find Eggsy wherever he might be?

It's a theory he doesn't have the luxury to test in this fucked up weather.

If Harry needs it, Harry will ask, Eggsy ultimately decides. He takes the chance to slip out of the living room and onto a quieter part of place, calling his mum instead. Her shift should be done right around now, so her phone will probably be on.

“ _I’m stuck here til morning along with a few co-workers, Eggsy,_ ” His mum says, anxious and apologetic.

“That's fine, mum. That’s the safest place you could be right now and not out in the rain and the flood trying to get home.”

He frowns, thinking of Harry. Eggsy shakes it off and tries to concentrate on calming his mum down, assuring that he’s fine for the night.

She’s near hysterical, so it’s clearly gonna take more convincing.

“Mum, honestly," He’s pacing around with the mobile on his ear when someone from nowhere suddenly bumps against him, their drink spilling on his clothes.

“What the fuck?" Eggsy exclaims, indignant and breathless from the fucking cold of it. While the jacket’s inner lining is actually waterproof and doesn't let it seep through, Eggsy's left it unzipped since he came in, so now the shirt Harry gave him is fucking _drenched_ in some fruity arse drink.

“Oh," Yvonne slowly blinks at the damaged shirt in shock. She's clearly a bit drunk, so it must have been an accident, but she ultimately smirks despite her innocent eyes. “Oops.”

“ _What happened? Eggsy?_ ”

He glares at Yvonne. “Nothing, mum. Just--”

“Oo!” She perks up, “Is that your mum? Hi!” She waves as if his mum can actually see her.

Yeah. She’s pissed.

“Mrs. Unwin! Or should I say Mrs. Har--”

Eggsy covers her mouth just in time. He forgot about that.

“ _Who’s that?_ ”

“No one, just a friend--" Yvonne licks at his palm, “Ugh, fucking hell," He groans, near hissing, “Yvonne, you--”

“Let’s come back to my bedroom and get you all cleaned up!" She pulls at his jacket, eager.

“Ugh--” Eggsy finds himself being dragged and he rolls his eyes. “Mum, I--”

“ _Nope. It’s fine,_ ” His mum suddenly says, her worries all gone. “ _Go on. Details later! Better be safe, you!_ ”

Maybe it’s the alcohol, because it’s only when he’s washing his polo-shirt in Yvonne’s bathroom that he realises his mum’s gotten the wrong impression.

Fuck.

 

\--

 

“Pleasantries aside,” Mycroft eyes Harry’s barely touched tea, “Wherever Arthur sees it fit to send you, your mission will most likely be to get intelligence--dirt and secrets from those in power and those around them, for leverage, if not plain sabotage and manipulation. Your objective is this: you must simply pay attention, Galahad. The connections of it all, what Arthur and his pawns have for their fanatical ambitions--you will report your findings. We’ll work on the rest.”

There’s something about Mycroft Holmes’s audacity. Harry has not agreed to anything at all. And yet this man seems to be so confident that he casually goes on, merely briefing him as if he has the right to do so.

Mycroft primly opens a file, “Let’s start with Arthur’s known associates so far--”

“No."

Mycroft tilts his head. “No? You don't wish to hear how the organisation you’ve worked for and believed in is slowly becoming tainted in their core values? How there are ulterior motives in missions, and how there are other forces at work? Arthur may genuinely believe that he is in the right, but you know what they say about the road to hell.”

Harry grits his teeth. He wants nothing to do with this.

“Amazing," Mycroft regards him, appalled and curious. “How _far gone_ must you be? And here I thought you cared about Kingsman and the state of the world.”

“Do not talk to _me_ about tainted core values. Power corrupts. That has never been a surprise--" Harry sits up straighter in his seat. “--Let us start with why you're threatening a civilian teenager’s life to coerce me into doing your dirty work.”

Seemingly lacking in grace for once, Mycroft gawks, mouth slightly open, and turns to Anthea. She mildly raises her eyebrows at him in reply. They both look at Harry who gazes back, cold and ruthless.

“Oh," Mycroft exhales, “Oh no. You seem to have gotten the wrong impression.”

Refusing to let his guard down, Harry narrows his eyes. “Have I?”

“I’m not the threat to the boy," Mycroft tells him. “You are.”

Harry stills.

“I would _never_ \--”

“Anthea," Mycroft stands, adjusting his suit, and makes his way to stand next to the screen. Anthea operates her tablet and the light in the room dims. The screen turns on.

Eventually, Eggsy's school photo stares back at Harry.

It throws him off in more ways than one; There’s the shock, but there’s also the creeping trepidation--It’s a debilitating combination.

“Gary Unwin," Mycroft begins, aloof, “Look at him--cocky, charming. Appears a bit older than he actually is. Only fifteen years old.”

Unable to look away from the screen, Harry feels himself go blank. “What?”

“I’ve always wanted to hear your explanation, Harry Hart. Don't hold back.”

Harry involuntarily shuts down. “I don't owe you an explanation.”

“Humour me.”

“I don't humour anyone.”

“You seem to humour him just fine."

On the screen plays a silent CCTV footage of a busy street near darker hours, and it zooms in, making it slightly pixelated but Harry can discern himself and Eggsy in the crowd, walking along; Harry’s carrying multiple bags in one hand and his umbrella in the other. Eggsy’s busy with a paper bag, enthusiastically showing off pieces of french fries.

A sense of foreboding needles at Harry before he even sees himself swiftly steal a fry from Eggsy with his mouth.

“...Gary Unwin," Harry finds himself saying on automatic once he’s filled his lungs an adequate amount of air, “Is the only child of Lee Unwin who was my proposed candidate for the position of Lancelot back in nineteen ninety-seven. Lee Unwin’s death was on my hands. I--”

“I am completely aware," Mycroft interrupts, “Don’t offend me by pretending I didn't do my research. That doesn't explain why you spend your time with a fifteen year old boy, Harry Hart.”

“He is the son of Lee Unwin," Harry reiterates, “Lee Unwin’s death left his family in a bad situation and I...felt some responsibility." He purses his lips and adds shortly, “Guilt.”

“Well, you should feel guilt," Mycroft says, blunt, “What would Lee Unwin _say_ , do you think, if he knew you were monopolising his son?”

“‘ _Monopolising_ ’?" Harry echoes, toneless.

Mycroft waves at Anthea and she swipes at her tablet. The screen shows more footage of different times and instances from several various angles, mostly in Selfridges. “How many times have you taken the boy shopping, Harry?”

“His family can't afford to buy quality clothes," Harry finds himself explaining.

Mycroft raises his eyebrows. “So it’s pity then?”

“Yes.” Harry answers clearly.

 _No. No, it isn't,_ he thinks with something akin to despair,  _That's not true._

Why is he lying?

Mycroft hums. “Tell me, how does pity get you shopping for groceries in Tesco at three a.m., or Ikea on a Sunday morning?”

Every recollection makes Harry feel heavier and heavier as if he's being set up to drown.

“He was helping me.” The answer leaves him on reflex as Harry helplessly watches the footage on the screen. There’s no sound, but the two of them are bickering over cans of soup. He remembers it.

“Helping you…what?” Mycroft urges him for more details, and goes on to mildly guess, “Choose the bedsheets?”

Harry finds himself paralysed, a cold weight settling in his stomach.

Onscreen, Harry and Eggsy touch the sheets on the display beds, beckoning each other to feel a certain one for an opinion.

Despite the growing regret and apprehension, he only tamps it down. He doesn’t even know why it’s there to begin with. He’s done nothing wrong.

Nothing.

Harry holds his head up as he squares his shoulders. There’s no choice but to reveal it now. “Gary Unwin stays in my guest room during the day.”

“Ah," Mycroft nods, glancing to Anthea who lightly shrugs. “That makes sense, with the appliances and air-conditioners you’ve bought.”

Of course. His financial activities has been thoroughly reviewed as well. He manages to hold back from bristling. “What I choose to spend my money on is none of your business, Mr. Holmes.”

“No, of course not," He concedes, civil, “Not even the suit worth almost three grand apparently bought for pity’s sake--Why does a teenage boy stay in your guest room?”

_I don't owe you answers. I don't owe anyone answers._

“For studying," says Harry, “He’s had some trouble at school. He needed a quiet place to study for his exams. A place without distractions.”

“Hmm," Mycroft nods repeatedly, seeming to accept that. “‘Without distractions’. That's interesting. He must be quite studious, that boy, if he's already studying for next year’s exams. After all, school has been out of session since last week.”

Harry’s mouth thins. “It’s become a habit," He begins to explain. He's never gotten around to ask Eggsy why he spends his time with Harry still, but Harry has his own conclusions.

“I bet," Mycroft interjects.

Harry gives him a cold stare, “Gary Unwin also works not far from my place. It’s become a habit of his to get to my house to study and then go to work.”

“Ah, and then he goes back to yours again after to...study?”

Harry's left hand twitches under the table. “Yes.”

“Still?”

“‘Still’ what?” He tries to keep his patience.

“School is over, Harry Hart. What does he do?” Mycroft watches him curiously. “Surely he still doesn't study.”

 _He obsessively plays solitaire and snake on his mobile,_ Harry’s mind supplies in a rush, _he reads, he laughs, he listens to music, he talks to me. I talk to him. Sometimes we do nothing but exist in the same space--_

“I don't know. I’m in my office half the time--Is there a point to this? Why does it feel as if I’m being interrogated? How am _I_ a threat to him?”

Mycroft's unreadable gaze doesn't leave Harry. Under the table, Harry's hand slowly clenches before Mycroft even speaks.

“Let’s cut the excuses, shall we?”

Harry tilts his head, meeting his gaze head on. “What excuses?"

Mycroft sighs, going over to Anthea and holding a hand out. She passes him the device.

“Surely you know what this appears to be?”

“No.” Harry remains resolute.

The disbelieving look that Mycroft gives him might just be tainted with a bit of commiseration, and Harry abhors it.

“You took him out on a date.”

Harry finds himself holding his breath. “...Pardon?”

Operating the tablet on his own, Mycroft looks to the larger screen. “After  _three_ films at the Barbican, you took him to dinner."

“That’s--"

There's no sound but Eggsy laughs at something Harry says onscreen. It's the full-bodied type, where Eggsy has his head thrown back as he shakes and--

Harry tears his gaze away and manages to keep his composure. “It was _not_ a date. Other than those required in my line of work, I haven't been on one for years--I barely remember what that's like--and I genuinely doubt _you’d_  know anything about them as well," Mycroft is too preoccupied by the screen to be offended and Harry barrels on, “I merely treated him to good food and genuine enjoyment. What in the _world_ \--”

“Shh," Mycroft hushes, and the footage switches to another angle from another camera. “This is one of my favourite parts.” Onscreen, Eggsy starts slicing the steak and it plays on to where he’s working on the shrimp and crabs, “Oh, but look how he cares for you.”

Harry grits his teeth but maintains his civilised front. “He cares for everyone. He's a good--"  _ ~~boy~~  _ “--person.”

Mycroft looks at him then. “A good person?" He raises an eyebrow. “I know for a fact you went undercover in Holland Park, surely you know of his  _behavioural_ records?”

Slowly tilting his head, Harry calmly blinks up at Mycroft, trying not to give in to the fantasy of strangling him with his ugly tie.

“...Unless," Mycroft continues, “He’s _different_ when he's with you?”

That’s--Harry can't think about it. He can't.

“...As the way you _are_ ," cautions Mycroft, slow, “...When you’re with him?”

The silence is somehow stifling.

“Humans are multi-faceted creatures," Harry lectures, “People's behaviour are dependent on situations and by those in their environment. This is _basic_. How one is at work most likely may be different from how they are with their friends or family.”

“You don't have friends, _Galahad_.”

Harry unbuckles his sling, and takes the time to stretch his right arm. Concentrating on the dull pain, he says nothing.

Regardless, Mycroft continues. “Nor do you have any family. Not ones you keep close, anyway.”

 _I could,_ Harry involuntarily thinks, thumb mindlessly running over the skin under his watch. _I could_ _have--_

“There are no rules against family or friends," Harry announces. “There are agents who have them.”

“But not you," says Mycroft, matter-of-fact, “Never you, Galahad.”

“Is there a point to all this?" Harry asks, impassive. “I have matters to tend to.”

“The point? Do you need it spelled out for you?" Mycroft's bewilderment is laced with frustration, and Harry can't even take pleasure from it. “You, a forty-seven year old man--you lie, cheat, steal, seduce, and _kill_ for a living," He goes on to enunciate, “You spend your time with a fifteen year old _boy_.”

“What are you _implying_?” He demands, cold and daring.

“You _know_ what this looks like, you took him out on a date--”

“I’ve told you,” Harry stresses, adamant, “I merely wanted to treat him to good food and enjoyment--”

“And why is that?” Mycroft challenges him, imploring, “Why do you _want_ to _treat_ him to--”

_Because I want him to be happy, I want to see the light in his eyes, I want him to discover new things, I want--_

“--Because he deserves good things." Harry’s tone brooks no argument. “Because I took his father away.”

“I believe you.”

Harry stares, stunned and suspicious. Mycroft huffs.

“I believe that's what you've managed to convince yourself to think. But other people won't.”

Harry gradually becomes motionless.

“Are you threatening me?”

He almost wants to laugh. In his line of work, threats are nothing new. Threats to himself, and not to Eggsy, he can handle with careless ease.

“I’m not the threat," says Mycroft, “The boy is.”

Thrown off-guard, Harry blinks in incomprehension.

“You’re a threat to him and he’s a threat to you," Mycroft explains, “You're both a threat to each other.”

“No." Harry refuses to accept that. Harry would _never_ hurt Eggsy, and-- “That doesn’t make any sense. What--”

“I said I believed you, I also said that other people won't,” Mycroft reminds him, “What would happen if that boy _talks_ , Harry? It’s your word against a minor.”

The implications of it all runs a cold chill up his spine, and he resolutely ignores the dread that threatens to drag him down. “Talks about what? Whatever that may be, he has no reason to lie.”

“You’re a spy, for the love of God,” Mycroft swipes at the tablet. “Look at the way the boy looks at you.”

 _That’s how he always looks at me_ , Harry wants to say. Because while that's true, it’s...different from this angle.

It---it appears as if they truly are in their own world, separate from the rest and oblivious to the looks sent their way and--Eggsy shakes his head and smiles, the genuine kind that's laced with a bit of pride and timidness at the same time, one of Harry's favourites-- _Since when did I have a favourite?_ \--Eggsy’s looking down at his food, and so is Harry onscreen, so of course he doesn't see it when Eggsy gazes up, smile simultaneously going brighter and softer all at once and--

Harry looks away, a grave sweep of uneasiness in his stomach. “No.”

“‘No’, what? Pay attention," Mycroft's mouth purses, piqued, “Anthea has really worked hard on this resolution. I mean, clearly it’s not perfect, but--”

“No," This whole situation is preposterous, he doesn’t need to be here. He needs to go to Eggsy. “You’re wasting my time.”

He starts to stand, and his mobile vibrates.

“There’s an audio sample that might be of interest," Mycroft taunts mildly. “It’s a conversation you weren't there for.”

 

**20\. 07. 2007 - M. Unwin:**

_I was right u piece of shit, my son has a girl!!!_

 

Harry finds himself mechanically sitting down, fingers brushing the keys of his mobile.

 

‘ _What?_ ’

 

\--

 

It hasn’t been even half an hour and Eggsy’s still waving his damp shirt, willing it to dry up by sheer force alone. His arms are fucking sore.

There's a knock on the door. Again.

“Oi! Honestly, you’ve been in there forever, Gary.”

He hisses at her, “I don't have my shirt on.”

“Aww," She coos all of a sudden, “You do know I've seen people naked right? Shirtlessness isn't anything new.”

Eggsy feels fucking dumb. Of course she has.

Scowling, he unlocks the door and she comes bursting through. He tries not to cover himself. Fuck's sake, why is he being a shy tit? He looks fucking good, and he knows it.

Yvonne whistles as she eyes him up and down. He just goes back to waving the polo-shirt much harder. “Is that what you’ve been doing all this time?" She frowns, “I have a hair dryer, you know.”

“No," He glares at her. This is her fault in the first place, “I don't want it to get ruined. It's better if it's air-dried.”

“Gary Unwin," She crows in wonder, “An expert in wear-care. Who knew?”

He bares his teeth and she rolls her eyes, “Just hang it there next to the towels, I'll get you something to wear in the meantime. So come on,” Yvonne beckons, “I really did have something to show you in the bedroom.”

 

\--

 

Determined to ignore the sense of impending doom, Harry regards Mycroft with scepticism and doubt. “Where would you get such audio from a basic CCTV surveillance?”

“It wasn’t difficult to go through the employee records and shift-times in the restaurant you were in and have their mobile activated," Mycroft explains mildly, working on fast-forwarding some footage.

“What are we, Americans?" Harry can't help but complain out of spite.

Mycroft scoffs, “Different players, same tactics. Pay attention. You’ve just went to the restroom here.”

Harry sees himself disappear in the corner of the screen. The audio begins, slightly low-quality, background noises of people and kitchen work.

“ _I’m not doing it, Diana. Gosh._ ”

“ _He gave me a look, yeah? He’s not a poof. Go on, check. Marie!_ ”

Harry’s mobile vibrates in real time, but he resolutely ignores it, gritting his teeth.

“ _I hate you._ ”

“ _I’ll have the father, you can have the son._ ”

Harry senses himself going still at that, terribly discomforted.

Onscreen, Marie goes to the table and Eggsy gives her a quick customary smile.

“ _Sir, are you finished with these?_ " Marie gestures to the plates.

“ _Uh, yeah. Thanks._ ”

She starts piling them up and makes some light conversation. “ _You coming down from uni for the summer?_ ”

“ _Erm, yeah, actually._ " Eggsy nods, starting to smile. Harry doesn't know why Eggsy's just lied. He shouldn't be proud of how convincing it is either.

“ _What course?_ ”

“ _Politics_ ," says Eggsy, “ _The structure of humanity_.”

Harry finds himself holding his breath.

“ _Oh wow_ ," Marie is clearly impressed. “ _That's tough--I’ll be back with your desserts._ " She smiles at him and leaves with the plates.

Eggsy fiddles with his hands and shrugs to himself before putting a palm to his face.

“ _What? What?_ ”

“ _Diana--_ ”

“ _What?_ ”

“ _He’s come down from uni for the summer._ ”

“ _I was right! He's visiting his family. Having dinner with his dad. Absent mum._ ”

“ _You don't know that!_ ”

“ _Tsk. Go, here, desserts._ ”

Marie brings them to the table, “ _Here you go._ ”

“ _Thanks_." Eggsy smiles at her, more genuine this time. That boy is so weak for dessert, Harry probably needs to pile him up with it until no one gets to take advantage.

“ _Well_ ," Marie stalls, watching Eggsy take in a scoop of the sorbet in his mouth. _“I think it's really sweet of you to accompany your father this fine evening._ " She smiles, quirky, gesturing at the windows which clearly shows the downpour of rain.

In spite of Harry's absolute offence at being thought of as Eggsy's father, he is distracted by the terrible attempt at humour for which she should be put to trial for and then _executed_.

Clearly, Eggsy thinks the same, considering he freezes, spoon still in his mouth. Eventually, he takes it out, staring at her blankly.

“ _Lady--_ " Eggsy begins, aborted. Either hesitant or trying to keep his calm, his words are slow. “ _Lady, that ain’t my dad._ ”

There's a brief tense silence. Harry can sense Mycroft's gaze on him.

“ _Oh._ " Marie begins, “ ** _Oh_** _, I--_ ”

“ _No, he--I--_ " Eggsy tries.

“ _\--I’m so sorry, sir--_ " She starts backing away before Eggsy can explain any further.

Eggsy pulls his lower lip far back in and bites, clearly displeased. His hand absently plays with his dessert spoon before putting it back in the bowl. Onscreen, Harry returns.

“ _What? What?_ ”

“ _Fuck you, I am so embarrassed. Diana, I swear--_ ”

“ _What?_ ”

“ _I thought he was going to kill me with a fucking spoon. That is_ **_not_ ** _his father._ ”

Harry is more concentrated on the fact that Eggsy goes to mindlessly slide the bowl over to him with a spoon he had already used. And honestly, Harry didn't even think to question it. Why in the world _didn't_ he?

It makes sense now, why Eggsy had given him that look, and why he had retaliated later on with his own conquest over Harry's spoon. This boy is truly vindictive. They need to communicate more.

“Well?" Mycroft prompts, grim.

“‘Well’, what?" Harry turns his gaze towards him, waiting.

Mycroft actually takes a few steps closer just to scrutinise him. “That boy was lazy _and_ smart enough to take the easy way out and leave initial impressions alone, to not draw any more questions, thus the lie--And _yet_ \--he denied the easier misconception that would leave you scot-free, that he was your son and you, his father.”

Harry’s nose wrinkles in distaste. “Of course he would. That has always been a source of issue for him. Lee Unwin may be long gone, but no one will ever take his place in Eg--Gary’s life,” He remembers the night of prom when Eggsy had cursed at him for trying to be a responsible adult, “He's very defensive about it, protective even. He takes it very seriously. The boy might see me as a father figure, but not as a serious contender to replace his own father.”

There’s a long moment of silence.

Harry's mobile vibrates.

Mycroft brings a hand up to rub at his temple, closing his eyes.

Anthea briefly chokes on a cough a few feet away.

“That may be how you see things, Harry Hart," Mycroft is clearly doing a bad job of keeping his patience, “However, it may not seem that way to him.”

Agitated, Harry rolls his eyes, tired of this game.

“Don’t roll your eyes at me," He swipes at the tablet, irked, “The way he looks at you--”

“It’s subjective. You’re _reaching_.”

Mycroft glowers. “Look. At. It.”

They’re at the Barbican, lining up for tickets. Eggsy’s talking animatedly at him, a hand articulating wild happenings from the film they've just seen. His other hand is--

“He stays by your injured side at all times, a hand on your elbow," Mycroft says quietly, “He rarely lets go, Harry. Very eager, very _keen_.”

 _He’s starved for physical contact_ , Harry bites down on his tongue, _He’s deprived_.

“...the boy just winked at you,” Mycroft flatly points out.

“That’s a twitch." Harry briefly squints before looking away. Honestly, the ‘winking’ is almost chronic. Maybe Harry should take him to a doctor.

“Gary Unwin looks for your approval, waits for you to react to whatever he says, _watches_ you--”

“Father figure," Harry clinically counters despite the tightness in his throat,  “Bad case of hero-worship."

Mycroft's tone is cold. “I don't care what your subconscious tells its deeper subconscious late at night so you can go to sleep." It’s clear that Harry has pushed him past basic sensibilities. “It’s not just him. It’s not just circumstance. This is on _you_ , Harry.”

“Isn’t everything?" He murmurs, thinking of Lee.

His mobile vibrates again, and he has to ignore it. He knows it's not Eggsy.

“Do you know what my favourite parts are?" Mycroft provokes in his smooth irritation, tapping on the tablet and turning to the screen. “Honestly, I can't choose. That's why I have them in a separate folder.”

Harry and Eggsy are having dinner, and Harry remembers this particular moment. Because Eggsy will try his first oyster in a few seconds.

“I’ve been given permission to peruse your mission footage archives, Galahad. Whether it was from your glasses or other forms of surveillance.” Mycroft informs him.

“ _Arthur_ gave you permission." Harry states, devoid of emotion.

“I offered that I would get you on board, one way or another. He didn't seem to care about my methods," He discloses casually, “Therefore, I’ve had a chance to study you for a quite a while.”

Harry discreetly takes a calming breath, thumbing at his left wrist under the table.

“I couldn’t go through them all, obviously, nor did I wish to suffer, but I did find something of interest.”

“Have you?” He asks, bland.

“You’ve been in many assignments where you’ve had to _entice_ people--not particularly honeypot, mind you--and you’re quite good at it. Very suave. Rarely ever ruffled--Until of course I came across that one mission you nearly botched because some woman drank from your glass. I legitimately thought you were going to take her eyes out with your fork. Your handler had to talk you down. And _yet--_ ” Mycroft gestures at the screen.

Harry hands Eggsy his cup of tea. Eggsy drinks.

“Now isn't _that_ peculiar?" Mycroft comments, “And really now, _oysters_? I know for a fact that those fabled aphrodisiacs make quite an appearance during your honeypot missions.”

Harry can't hold back a grimace, especially as Mycroft continues, “I think I shan't touch upon the dessert spoon exchange. I will mention, however, that one assignment where that man seductively attempted to fellate your steak knife. Is that something you recall?”

Pursing his lips, Harry tries not to fidget in his seat. “That was one time.”

“I had to drink myself to sleep. Was the ghastly violence truly necessary? Did you really have to _suddenly_ shove it far back through his head?” He complains, disgusted, “No warning whatsoever, honestly. I still can't tell if he died choking on his own blood, cerebral damage, or blood loss."

It all feels as if he's back in Eton, being lectured by the headmaster about his weekly unacceptable behaviour. For fuck's sake.

“I’m not here to be critiqued about how I do my job. Also, I like to think I’ve mellowed with age," he can’t help but try to defend himself.

Mycroft's expression is one of disdain.

“Merely pointing out a contrast," He busies himself with the tablet, but he seems to be having trouble with it. Anthea sighs and takes it from him.

Harry considers reading his messages and drowning out everything else that's been thrown at him so far. Either way, dread prods at him whichever direction he’ll take.

Eventually, onscreen is another footage of Ikea’s interiors.

“Ah, there we are." Mycroft announces loftily, “Such domesticity.”

Eggsy and Harry starts off from afar, walking closer towards where the camera is situated. Harry seems to be searching for something, gaze distant. His back is to Eggsy who is to his left for once, starting to linger behind with the trolley.

It isn't long until Harry slows to a stop as well.

The footage zooms. It's still slightly pixelated, but someone clearly did their best with the resolution enhancement.

“Your boy is in distress." Mycroft literally points towards Eggsy on the screen, and Harry doesn't know how to feel about that. There is indeed something going on with Eggsy's expression, and he can't quite fully discern it with the video quality, but Harry can tell.

He’s wondering what it could have been about when suddenly--Onscreen, Harry takes a simple step back, left hand absently reaching behind to come up and touch Eggsy's head. Pulling away, his fingers run down through Eggsy's short hair; It’s quick as it started. His gaze remains concentrated afar.

Harry blinks slowly at the screen.

“Going from your expression, you don't remember doing that,” Mycroft muses. “As I thought.”

Onscreen, Eggsy stares up at him, seemingly better.

“This is what I'm talking about, Harry," Mycroft murmurs. “Your boy was upset and you simply sensed it--And followed it by _thoughtless_ action. You, who has always prided himself on composure and control. It's careless. Dangerous.”

Harry can't speak.

His heart rate is becoming heavy in its slow acceleration, reverberating through his body. It's eerily overwhelming.

Mycroft goes on, “But truthfully, I saved the best for last.”

The setting changes into the inside of the Adidas store.

Eggsy is on a bench fussing with a shoebox, hesitant, and Harry takes it from him--It feels as if he’s about to watch a trainwreck but he can’t quite keep his eyes away.

Onscreen, Harry moves to partly get on his knees in front of Eggsy.

He grits his teeth, and it hurts his head.

“Look at you, getting on your knees for him. In public, no less." Mycroft remarks, whimsical but no less cutting, “And look at your boy. I bet this has got to be when it started for him.”

Harry has trouble breathing evenly.

Eggsy doesn't seem to know what to do with his hands, constantly in halting movements. He looks embarrassed, but more self-conscious, eyes flitting about their surroundings.

“I bet it crossed his mind to put his hands on your hair.”

Harry goes rigid.

“Stop.”

“Hmm?”

“I said _stop_ ," he threatens, low.

“Why should I? I’m trying to prove a point--”

“ **Don’t**."

“Don’t what?”

 _Don’t do this,_ The thoughts pierce through, senseless and desperate, breaking through his control, _Don’t do this. I want to keep making him happy. I can't do that if you--_

“Harry Hart, you let him in. By doing so you’ve given him the key to ruin you.”

“You’re making no sense," Harry vehemently maintains.

“He’s _infatuated_ with you--”

“ **No** \--”

“You’ve seen your actions and how they can be interpreted. You’ve been leading him on, Harry," Mycroft proclaims. “Not on purpose. But I genuinely doubt it'll make a difference to the boy when you finally reject him.”

Harry stops.

“That _is_ what you’ll do, you know,” Mycroft tells him, forthright, “You’ll reject him not only because it's the right thing to do, but clearly because you're disgusted with yourself." His clinical, assessing gaze makes Harry feel corrupted, “And when you do reject him, that boy will be a wild card.”

Words failing him in distress, Harry can only shake his head.

Mycroft continues on, relentless, “You’ve let him in. He knows too much about you. He’ll know just where to slip the knife. There’s enough evidence to make it believable. You’ve assembled a gun for him to use and shoot you with.”

“No."

It’s the only thing he’s capable of saying.

“No? Teenagers are already unpredictable. This boy, with his added _issues_ , clearly he’s even more volatile. There’s no telling what he’ll do.”

“Even in the _wild_ possibility that any of this is true," Harry begins, harsh and resolute, “He wouldn’t."

Mycroft peers at him.

“...You don’t think he’s capable, or you don't think he'll pull the trigger when it comes to you?”

Harry can't know. Eggsy has been involved in dubious situations due to circumstance or his own impulse, but he wouldn't--

“Maybe you need to take some time to evaluate _yourself_ ," Mycroft concedes, “Clearly, this is taking a toll on you.”

Harry immediately takes the opportunity to read his messages to distract himself.

It's a mistake.

 

**20\. 07. 2007 - M. Unwin:**

_Who's ‘yvonne’? Did eggsy evr mention??_

 

**20\. 07. 2007 - M. Unwin:**

_Was on the phone w/ eggsy. She was there, said hi, very eager--the shameless bint! I kinda like it? They seemed busy._

 

**20\. 07. 2007 - M. Unwin:**

_If u kno wat imean._

 

Harry stares at his mobile, feeling the cold creeping throughout his body.

Mycroft's words fade into the foreground, “...You also might consider going to a psychiatrist for your severe repression amongst other things--I doubt you’ll be needing medication, but a few sessions should give you some perspective and--”

“A psychiatrist,” Harry repeats, blank, “So you can read their analysis and get more on me?"

“I don't need to. Trust me when I say that I already know enough about you.”

The light on his mobile goes dark, and Harry is numb. “Then surely with all your dedicated research, you are aware that I also meet with Michelle Unwin.”

He fixes his empty gaze on Mycroft.

“Well, yes. However, there was not much footage inside the café. You always sat in a particular spot.”

“What does Arthur know?”

Mycroft lets him suffer for a few seconds.

“Nothing. _Yet_.”

Harry nods, taking a slow breath. He starts to put the sling back on his arm, delaying the inevitable thoughts of Eggsy and Yvonne Jansen. “While I appreciate your...perspective and how it may all appear to the public, I would like to tell you that it doesn't matter.”

Eyebrows raised, Mycroft appears mildly offended. “...It…’ _doesn't matter_ ’?”

“No, it doesn't. Because it simply isn't true,” Harry murmurs, standing up and straightening his suit. “As we speak, that boy is allegedly engaging in sexual activities with people his age. As he should be.”

Mycroft stares, “And you know this, how?”

“His mother just texted me; Apparently, she was on the phone with him and the boy was caught in...a compromising position.” Harry tries for a smile. It barely lasts a second. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ll have to go and give him a lecture--being the father figure that I am.”

He makes his way for the door, trying to abate the sickly rolling in his stomach. It all makes sense now--Eggsy had asked for condoms and lube. Because he had plans. Of course it had crossed Harry’s mind once Eggsy mentioned the party, but Eggsy had insisted the opposite and Harry had believed him-- _Foolish_.

That was very, _very_ foolish and--

“Hart.”

Harry sets his shoulders straight. He keeps his expression neutral as he turns around, waiting. As it should be. None of this should be affecting him. Because it all means nothing.

Nothing.

“I’ll be giving you time,” says Mycroft, “You clearly need it.”

“Compassion doesn’t suit you, Mycroft Holmes,” Harry tells him, bland.

Mycroft huffs. “It’s only basic common-sense and procedure to ensure the health of agents before they go on their missions. Not only physically, but _mentally_ ,” he enunciates, taking a pause, “And that boy has ruined you beyond your own comprehension.”

Harry’s breathing can’t possibly be shallow. He has more control than that.

“Good luck, Harry Hart. You’ll need it.”

 

»

 

He tells the cab driver to head for somewhere in Chelsea, near Brompton Cemetery. After Mycroft’s presentation, it’s clear that Harry has been careless. He’s quite certain there are cameras in at least half of London’s cabs, and it’s not just paranoia.

Harry grips his mobile as he stares out the window.

Eggsy hasn’t made contact. And Harry tries not to worry or wonder why.

It’s not as if Eggsy is required to make contact.

His teeth grinds and he feels a migraine coming along.

He’s not upset. He’s merely worried about his safety. And Harry could have ensured it if Eggsy didn’t lie.

But then again, subjectively speaking, if anyone would have an abundance of condoms and such materials, it would probably be Yvonne Jansen.

At the thought comes a new wave of grating despair.

It’s irrational. And Harry despises it.

Despises the deluge of unstoppable ideas and visions that come along with it.

Eggsy taking off Yvonne Jansen’s clothes.

Yvonne Jansen taking off Eggsy’s, triumphant smirk _teasing_.

Harry feels ill.

But the images flashing in his head doesn’t stop.

Even if it was Eggsy’s first time, there’s no doubt that he’d figure it out. That he’d be good. Because Yvonne Jansen would teach him.

And Eggsy would be quick and enthusiastic like he always is with learning new skills, taking it to heart.

She would laugh that carefree laugh of hers, and Eggsy would probably huff, trying to take things seriously as he noses his way up her bare legs--

_Disgusting._

Harry can’t help the abhorrent coil of revulsion.

_Disgusting, disgusting, disgusting._

 

\--

 

Eggsy laughs again, helpless. He really tries to stop, but every time he looks at the wooden [plaque](http://i.imgur.com/Hn7TDlf.jpg) he’s holding in his hand, he just breaks. Maybe that’s because he’s on his third glass of alcohol. He doesn’t even know what it is, but it didn’t taste as bad as the others. Yvonne’s been keeping the good shit to herself, obviously.

He feels like he’s been laughing for ages when he finally calms down. He turns to Yvonne right next to him on the mattress. “I really can’t believe you.”

“Yeah, yeah,” She grumbles, still managing to look high and mighty. As high and mighty as anyone can be when they have a wooden plaque that reads ‘ _My prince did come, and his name is daddy'_.

Eggsy bites his lip, trying hard to hold back another attack of wild laughter.

“So, what, are you giving this to me then?” He waves the plaque. It gives him a sense of second-hand embarrassment just looking at it but for fuck’s sake--he’ll take it. Gladly. It means she surrenders.

Rightfully so.

“Well,” Yvonne starts, mullish, “Technically, he’s your daddy now.”

Eggsy almost chokes on his drink. He sets it down next to his flat-peak cap on her fancy bedside table.

She gives him a critical look. “He’s dating your mum, isn’t he?”

“Well,” Eggsy remembers that he has to be annoyed about this pretend story, and he scrunches his face in disdain, “Yeah.”

Yvonne pouts and bangs her head against the pillow.

“Oi, it can’t have been that serious, was it?” He guffaws, refusing to feel guilty, “Did you really like him? Like, _like_ like him?”

“You’re dumb,” She sends him a glare that somehow manages to work despite her slurring at the edges, “I just wanted to fuck him. Didn’t say I was in love.”

Eggsy scowls.

She makes a noise, “I mean, the fantasies were nice. And it _could_ have been serious. But come on. Ugh.”

“Yeah, you wish,” He mutters.

Yvonne perks up. “That was your fault!”

“Wot?”

“If you didn’t walk in--I swear--He would have fucked me so hard against that desk until I saw stars,” She whines, and Eggsy’s only a teenage boy, so obviously he’s weak, torn between arousal and disgust at the mere thought of it.

“You delusional as fuck, Yev. Mr. Hart’s got class. He ain’t fucking an underage student just ‘cos.”

Which is why Eggsy will wait as long as it fucking takes. His birthday’s in September. He has a chance, he knows it now. He’s not gonna fuck it up.

She stills, peeking over her pile of pillows. “When did your mum and him start dating?”

Eggsy raises his eyebrows, confused. He tries to tamp down the nervousness at her serious expression. “Err,” he tries to find an answer, but he only raises his half empty glass and shrugs, hoping he can pass it off to the alcohol.

“I hope it was after that incident,” She tells him gravely.

“...Why?” Eggsy cautiously asks.

“‘Cos he was gonna fuck me.”

Eggsy stares. And he sends her a couple of weird looks waiting for her to give up the joke.

Yvonne shakes her head. “Like, I dunno about your mum, or how fit she is, or maybe they haven’t gotten together yet at that time, but--he was gonna fuck me.” She nods, uncharacteristically solemn.

Eggsy laughs nervously. “You drunk as fuck.”

“You don’t understand,” She tells him, insistent. “I had him between my legs, yeah? And he was--” She licks her lips, eyes far away, “--he stepped in between them. And he had this _look_ on his face. It was very serious and it--it sent this fucking chill up my spine,” She shudders, and Eggsy feels a wave of goosebumps on his skin. He thinks he knows what look she’s talking about. He can practically see it.

Eggsy bites at the inside of his cheek, clutching the wooden plaque to his chest. “That don’t mean he was gonna fuck you.”

 _You were selling drugs_ , Eggsy doesn’t say, _he just wanted you to tell him shit._

“I had him right _there_. He was so fucking close to me, he was about to give in. I could _see_ it. But then you came along and he just--ugh.” Yvonne gives him a superior look. “Maybe your mum was holding out on him. A man has needs you know.”

“Fuck you,” He mumbles, trying not to think about it. Harry had said he wasn’t interested. Well, that didn’t mean he wasn’t itching for a fuck but--Eggsy pushes the thoughts away.

Maybe Harry wanks off day and night. Something Eggsy needs to do. He hasn’t wanked off in ages. He was busy at work or spending time with Harry. Eggsy couldn’t wank off at home--whenever he actually manages to be there, his mum is too. And he’s decided to keep his laptop at Harry’s place, because how the fuck could he explain a Macbook if his mum ever saw?

He’s never wanked off at Harry’s because he didn’t know he could even lock his fucking door.

But _now--_

Ah, shit. Eggsy shifts in place.

“Is your mum good in bed?”

“What the fuck?” Eggsy exclaims, disgusted. “How the fuck would I know?”

“Surely you hear stuff at home yeah? Can’t imagine your walls to be thick, no offence-- _Oh_ ,” Her eyes shine, “Is _he_ good in bed then?”

“What the fuck?”

“Does he make your mum scream?” She teases, and Eggsy feels fucking sick.

“I’m fuckin’ serious right now, if you don’t stop that shit--”

She huffs, rolling her eyes. “Is he at least good?”

“Good?” He grits out.

“You seem to hate him so much. I mean come on, is the gentleman thing just for show? Isn’t he romantic?”

Eggsy bites his lip, doing his best not to smile like a fucking loser. ‘Cos if he goes just by the way Harry treats him--He can’t even imagine what a genuinely romantic Harry is even like.

“Does he treat you and your mum nice?”

Eggsy scowls.

“Yeah,” he says, and he doesn’t even have to try to _not_ think about an alternate universe where Harry and his mum are an actual thing. His brain literally can’t handle it. Just the idea of it, at its surface--it fucks him up, and he can’t go on imagining the scenarios in detail. But he already feels like shit anyway.

And Yvonne must see it, because she huffs. “Fine. I’ll stop.” It’s as close as apologetic as she can probably get. ”And yeah, you can have that,” She nods at the plaque in Eggsy’s grip.

“For reals?” He can’t help but perk up. That would make it official won’t it?

“Yeah, go on. Unless you want me seducing him off your mum,” She raises an eyebrow.

“Fuck off,” He sniffs, playing it up, “My mum deserves some happiness.”

She rolls her eyes, lazily reaching for the nightstand on her side of the bed. Because it’s a big arse bed. Comfy as fuck. Too comfy though. It’s weird. And he knows that Harry asked him not to fall asleep--which is an even weirder thing--but Eggsy really wants to doze off right now. He’s warm and shit and Yvonne’s officially backing off.

Life is good.

“Oi,” Yvonne pokes at him, “You want these too or no?”

Eggsy gasps at the metal [lunchbox](http://i.imgur.com/jPKs3z4.jpg) full of Sugar Daddy lollipops, “Holy shit.”

“Do you still have yours?”

“Hell no,” Eggsy ran through them so fast he didn’t even notice it until they were gone. They don’t exactly taste anything special, caramel milk or something, but the consistency of them--Eggsy got used to having them in his mouth. They get soft when they get warm and wet, and they just basically change shape depending on how Eggsy uses his tongue. And somehow that--that was really addictive. It was thing that he’d mindlessly do when he was doing random tasks around the house.

He watches Yvonne suspiciously. “Why’d you have them just like that? Are they laced with something?”

Has Eggsy been getting high on sucking off sugar daddies?

Yvonne sighs, pouting again. “I got sick of them. I’ve got better options. Like foreign chocolates. Not these tacky stuff.”

Eggsy’s somehow ridiculously defensive, “I’ll take them if you don’t want them, goddamn.”

She pushes the metal box towards him. “Go on.”

It’s ridiculous how chuffed he is, and he plunges his hand in the box, feeling just how many there are in there. This shit could last him a month. He’s so fucking ecstatic, but it’s too good to be true, so he can’t help but check anyway. “You sure?”

“Maybe there are better things to suck on.” Yvonne waggles her eyebrows.

 

\--

 

The cab drops him off a street away where he needs to be. Just as planned.

While the rain has slowed down for a bit and the flooding in this area isn’t as bad as the ones he saw in the news earlier, the water is past Harry’s ankles.

Regardless, he makes his way to his destination, debating whether or not to call Eggsy.

Harry reaches the proper self-storage unit, unlocks it, and opens it with one push upwards, revealing his Ducati.

He’s breathing much harsher than he should be.

From here he can hear the rain pouring down much harder than before.

His right hand clenches against his abdomen before it slowly splays wide open.

There really isn’t any other way.

Harry unbuckles his sling.

 

\--

 

It’s tempting.

It’s really, _really_ tempting.

“Come on,” Yvonne coaxes, a sweet smile on her lips, “Don’t you want to get your dick wet?”

_Fuck._

Eggsy hasn’t wanked off for the longest time probably known to humankind. And now some fit girl--not just _some_ fit girl, it’s Yvonne Jansen. People would probably kill for this opportunity.  _Yvonne Jansen_ is offering to suck him off.

Possibly more.

Eggsy bites his lip.

This could be good. Yvonne could teach him all the things.

And when the time comes, he’ll have some idea. Some experience.

He’ll be ready for Harry.

He’ll be good.

Yvonne makes her way closer, a leg sliding inbetween his. She is seductive as fuck, and Eggsy is weak, but somehow he manages to find the will to trap her leg before it even reaches to brush against his crotch.

She looks at him questioningly.

Eggsy manages not to act like a complete virgin. “Err--Why?”

She tilts her head, staring at him and licking her lips. “Because it makes sense? You’re fit--I’m fit,” Her fingers playfully make their way up his arm, “The only thing stopping us was Mr. Hart, wasn’t it? And he’s dating your mum.”

Somehow, that logic is fucking sound.

But that might just be his dick talking along with the alcohol.

The alcohol.

Fucking shit.

“Yvonne, we’re a bit pissed, yeah?”

“Yeah,” She breathes, eyes sultry.

Fuck.

“A gentleman shouldn’t--” He tries weakly before she laughs.

“I think you’ve been spending _too_ much time with Mr. Hart.”

His toes curl at the thought of Harry. And it just feels _wrong, wrong, wrong_.

“Oi,” Eggsy makes a crack at another tactic, “Didn’t you say your best friend fancied me?”

She huffs, “Maybe I’m trying you out before I hand you over. Quality control, you know. That sort of stuff.”

The offence isn’t really faked when he faintly demands, “What kind of friend are you?”

“A good one. Her birthday’s coming up in a few days you know. You’re invited,” Her fingers trace along his jawline and--"I doubt she’d mind a threesome.”

_Fucking hell._

Eggsy holds back a whine.

That’s a teenage boy’s ultimate dream, isn’t it?

“I--” He clutches the plaque tighter, keeping it a pathetic barrier between them. “I have someone. I was on the phone earlier? Remember? I’m sorry.”

Yvonne raises her eyebrows, “Yeah, but you’ve been on _my_ bed for what? An hour? Two? Clearly you’re up for it.” She teases. “Don’t worry, I won’t tell.”

He continues to protest, but she puts a finger to his lips, blinking slowly.

“You can bring her too, next time. I don’t mind.”

Eggsy grits his teeth at the thought of sharing Harry, and he immediately turns, hiding his face against a pillow. “M’tired. Sorry.”

She insists, whispering hotly into his ear, “Don’t worry, I’ll do all the work.”

Eggsy shudders.

 

»

 

Harry knocks, trying to keep his patience.

He’s practically drenched, but he only straightens his suit and runs his fingers back through his damp hair.

The door opens, and some teenager’s eyes bug out at the sight of him. The boy tries to close the door, but his reflexes are slow, obviously intoxicated, not fast enough to prevent Harry from putting his foot through.

“I’m only here for Gary Unwin.”

Harry pushes the door further open despite the boy's full weight against it.

It’s almost midnight, and the music is low in volume in the background. People are mostly asleep all over the place, but he catches a few looks, some clearly recognising him from his time in Holland Park.

They don’t matter.

Methodically surveying the space, he doesn’t find him.

He doesn’t _sense_ him either.

Harry ignores the way the feeling at the pit of his stomach intensifies.

There’s no use in searching here. Eggsy’s not in this floor level. That, he knows.

He focuses on the throbbing pain on his right arm. It keeps him in check.

Harry approaches someone familiar, Ryan, a friend of Eggsy’s who is snoring on a sofa.

He does his best not to injure him.

Ryan flinches awake, “What the fu--”

“Eggsy Unwin,” Harry prompts quietly.

All he gets is a squint and panicked breathing.

Harry exhales slowly. “Where is he?”

Ryan gapes, finally recognising him despite never having taken his class. “Mr. Hart? That you?”

“Yes. Eggsy Unwin. Where.”

“Err,” He looks around, disoriented, “Last time I saw he was dancin’ with Yvonne? Jansen? You know her, yeah?”

Of course.

Some people are doing a terrible job of minding their own business, peeking over at them and trying to eavesdrop. Harry stares at them until one confesses, “I-I think I saw them go off together? Somewhere?”

He shifts his gaze to someone else.

“Er--Upstairs? If you know what I mean.”

Of course.

Harry tilts his head.

A mousy girl stammers, “W-would you like some help?”

“Very kind of you.”

She leads him upstairs until they're in front of a door. Harry blankly stares at it.

There’s no noise on the other side. Not that he can hear.

She fidgets.

He turns to her and musters up a smile, but he fears he’s come up a bit short, empty as he feels. “Thank you.”

She nods, hurriedly going away.

If this door is locked, so help him God--

The doorknob easily turns, and he quietly makes his way in.

They’re on the bed.

They’re on the bed, and it’s nothing...explicit.

But he should have braced himself regardless, because there’s a wave of nausea that catches him off-guard.

Eggsy has his back turned towards him, facing Yvonne Jansen.

They’re asleep, turned towards each other. Touching. Close.

Too close.

The room doesn’t smell of sex, but--

Harry finds himself swallowing, approaching slowly.

He watches them for a moment, and his hands twitch.

His left hand is a mere centimetres away from Eggsy’s neck.

And he has to wake him up--so of course he lets his fingers reach, brushing against the heat of his skin.

There’s a small noise from Eggsy’s throat, and Harry realises it then, how cold he must be, coming in from the rain--

But Eggsy leans backwards against the touch, and Harry sees, Harry _knows_ , that’s not Eggsy’s shirt.

Harry’s hand twitches, curling in, not quite a fist; Unmoving, the joints of his fingers press slowly against the side of Eggsy’s neck as Eggsy continues in his motion of leaning backwards and--

Eggsy’s breath hitches, eyes blinking open, hazy.

Their gazes meet, and Harry has to strive in pulling his hand away, but Eggsy only sleepily reaches back to lightly hold it in place as he fully turns towards him.

It leads to Eggsy’s warm, chapped lips brushing against the lower end of Harry’s palm, near the wrist, and--

“Time to go home,” Harry murmurs, quiet.

Eggsy sluggishly nods, closing his eyes once more. “Mmm.”

Harry finds himself thumbing along his jawline until he gets to the edge, near the ear. He settles on the tender meat underneath. Presses down, _hard_.

Eggsy jolts up, “Fuck. Whazzat? Wha’ happened?”

His alertness immediately dies down to mulish exhaustion, and he’s rubbing his face as Yvonne Jansen shifts awake next to him. Harry prevents Eggsy from laying back down with a hand at the nape of his neck.

Eggsy whines.

Yvonne blinks at them. She perks up. “Mr. Hart?”

“Miss Jansen,” His grip on Eggsy tightens, “Where is his shirt?”

She gapes. “...In the bathroom.”

“...Would you be so kind?” He manages through his teeth, and she slowly backs away from them, getting off the bed and going around to get to the door somewhere behind Harry’s left.

Eggsy immediately tries to go back to sleep, evading Harry’s hold and occupying the vacant space.

“No,” Harry pulls at his atrocious jacket, making him sit up.

Eggsy whines, and Harry places a hand on the side of Eggsy’s face before moving up to lightly grip at his hair. “Behave.”

Eggsy hisses, but he does as he’s told, ultimately blinking owlishly at Harry. He pouts.

 _Incorrigible little_ \--

“I waited forever,” Eggsy grumbles.

“Two hours _at best_ \--” Harry shortly replies, teeth grinding, “Don’t be dramatic, darling. Two hours and you’re already drunk.”

“M’not drunk--” Eggsy begins to protest, and Harry lets him go to pick up the second near-empty glass of alcohol next to Eggsy’s hat on the bedside table.

Chagrined, Eggsy mumbles under his breath and makes his way to sit on the edge of the bed.

“Err--” Yvonne peers over from the bathroom. “It’s still wet,” she waves the polo-shirt at them.

Harry moves to take it from her, but Eggsy attempts to get there first, stumbling forward, and Harry immediately wraps his right arm around his torso, keeping him upright against his front. “Fuck’s sake,” he heatedly utters against Eggsy’s hair.

Eggsy abruptly keens, then struggles, gripping at Harry’s arm, the pain of it steadily grating on his nerves. “Fuckin’--you didn’t have to be here, you know. Even my mum couldn’t be arsed. God, how whipped are you, guv?”

The words _sting_ than it has any right to and Harry lets him go as if he’s been burned.

 _It’s better this way,_ he thinks, as Eggsy snatches the shirt from Yvonne.

It means Mycroft is wrong.

 _It’s better this way_ , he thinks, as Eggsy murmurs something low against Yvonne’s ear, making her eyes go round before she smirks, biting her lip.

It means Harry is right.

Eggsy cocks an eyebrow at him. “You ready? Let’s go.”

“Aw,” Yvonne Jansen begins to protest, leaning against the doorway to the bathroom, “But it’s raining--It’s literally flooding outside. You guys should stay.”

Harry regards her with a cold stare, but Eggsy squawks, outraged, so Harry doesn’t even have to find words to speak and only stares at the hand blindly grabbing at his suit, pulling. Eggsy bursts into questionable laughter, shaking his head at her, “Nuh-uh.”

He remembers to reach for Eggsy’s hat on the bedside table before letting himself be dragged out of the room.

“Wait, Gary! Your stuff!” Yvonne calls after them, but Eggsy only manages to walk faster despite his lack of coordination.

“Eggsy,” Harry tries, “ _Eggsy--_ ”

As he takes the first step down the stairs, Eggsy is still clearly unstable, and Harry grips at his waist warningly, “Slowly. Carefully.”

They automatically release their hold on each other once they’re in the view of the other guests who immediately pretend they weren’t gathered at the end of the stairs. At the back of Harry’s mind, he worries that he’s made things difficult for Eggsy when he goes back to school, or even in his social life, but Eggsy seems to pay them no mind. Heading straight for the main door, Eggsy only shoves his polo-shirt into one of the inner pockets that Harry has commissioned into that hideous jacket.

“The lifts are out of order,” Harry announces when he sees that Eggsy intends to go for it.

Brows furrowed, a disbelieving grin crosses Eggsy’s face as he chortles, “You tellin’ me that you walked up three flights of stairs just to get to me?”

“Six,” He carelessly corrects him, stilted.

Eggsy frowns, and Harry passes him by, making his way to the stairs.

Despite his best efforts, Eggsy lags behind with his concentrated, wobbly steps, and Harry miraculously keeps his patience until halfway through the fourth set of stairs. Irritated, he huffs, rolling his eyes. Harry turns around and places the cap on Eggsy’s head, momentarily distracting him before he sweeps him off his feet.

“Fuck--” Eggsy instinctively wraps his arms around Harry’s neck. “What--”

“You’re slow,” Harry tells him, jaw clenching. This boy is fucking heavy, but it’s much faster like this. It’s been a very long day, and Harry wants nothing more than to go home. “This is why we don’t drink, and keep our wits about us.”

Eggsy whines, hiding his face against the crook of Harry’s neck. “M’not that drunk, I was playing it up, swear down.”

“Swear when you’re sober,” Harry retorts, bitter, as they go out to the rain. “You’re riding on the front. I don’t need you falling off.”

“Ride wot.”

“Zip up your jacket, pull up your hood.” Harry sets him down on the Ducati, taking a moment to look down in distaste at the floodwater almost up to his knees.

“Holy shit,” Eggsy exclaims, managing to follow orders as he settles down further, “How will we fit? Can you reach the things? You sure you want me on the front?”

“It’s either that or risk you falling off and drowning,” He tells him shortly as he gets on behind him.

There’s an abrupt noise from Eggsy. “Err--you know I’ve always wondered where you kept this.”

“Hardly important at the moment--If you could please reach forward and hold on to the small bar near the dash. Both hands.”

Eggsy does, and because their height is near similar in sitting position, Harry has to make an effort to see the controls as he keys in the ignition, his chin grazing Eggsy’s shoulder, his cheek brushing against the hood of Eggsy’s jacket.

“D’you want me to bend over?” Eggsy offers.

Harry goes rigid, but he manages to get enough control in time, keeping the balance of the motorcycle so they don’t fall over sideways. He grits his teeth, cursing Mycroft Holmes to the fucking depths of hell.

“Harry?”

“If you could--” He bites his tongue, “Please.”

Eggsy bends easily.

 

»

 

Driving a motorcycle has enough force and vibration to rattle throughout his body. Driving a motorcycle through a flooded London--He resolutely ignores the persistent pain in his right arm.

He doesn’t keep track of time, but they eventually make it there, and he parks in front of the windows.

The water is considerably less here, but it’s still at least a foot deep, going from observation alone.

Harry gets off the motorcycle, and Eggsy remains unmoving, staying in his position. Harry settles a hand on his back.

Eggsy suddenly jolts up, “M’not asleep, I--” He rubs at his face, blindly shifting in place, unsteady, trying to get off the motorcycle. Harry huffs, and puts his arms around him, lifting him up.

“Jesus _fuck--_ ” Eggsy’s limbs automatically cling to him, “What is wrong with you? I’m practically wet already, I can handle floodwater.”

Despite his protests, his legs tighten around Harry’s waist as Harry makes his way to the door, partly fishing for his keys in his trouser pockets.

Stepping over the barrier and onto the safety of the foyer, he sets Eggsy down. Harry resolutely stays in one place as water pools under him. He concentrates on his oxfords, gingerly stepping out of them and carefully lifting to pour the water outside the door before shutting it closed and making sure it’s securely locked.

He frowns at his soaked socks. To be honest, he’s soaked everywhere. Harry sighs, displeased. This is ridiculous.

Looking up, he finds Eggsy watching him, leaning back against the wall.

Harry purses his lips. “Take a shower. Now.”

Eggsy raises his eyebrows before scurrying away to the direction of the bathroom.

Harry sighs again, rubbing at his temples. After taking off his socks, he quickly makes his way upstairs to his en-suite to throw it away and shed off the rest of his clothes. There’s nothing more he’d like than to get this day over with, to forget the words and ideas and images that he's had to suffer through.

Just a few more basic things to do and he’ll be done. Finally.

He’s preparing his own shower when he realises that Eggsy has nothing to change into.

Harry scowls.

Gentlemen do not whine, nor do they groan--even if Harry _is_ fucking tired and this day never seems to _end_.

Harry shuts the water off and puts on his red robe, making his way to Eggsy’s room.

There’s nothing suitable in the wardrobe, and it all makes fucking sense when he catches sight of a pile of clothes in the corner. Harry looks to the ceiling and closes his eyes.

Counting to ten has never really worked for him.

He hisses, teeth grinding as he makes his way back to his own room, picking up the first comfortable pair of sweats he sees and marches downstairs.

Somehow the bathroom door is unlocked, and that just adds to his agitation. The mirrors are steaming from the heat and Eggsy’s wet clothes are in a lump on the sink. He resolutely keeps his eyes on it as he hears the shower curtain move.

“Haz?”

“Clothes for you to change into,” He sets it down on the counter, “I’m going to bed. Don’t fall asleep in the shower and drown.”

“Ah, no wait, I’m just about done.”

What in the bloody _hell_ does that have to do with _Harry_?

“Goodnight,” He says quickly, keeping his eyes down and away from the mirrors as he makes for the door.

The water turns off and Eggsy calls out, “Can you hand me the towel?”

“ _No,_ ” Harry snaps, and he finally escapes the heat of the room.

A quick shower doesn’t abate his vexation and he desperately tries to fall asleep with his head under a pillow, partially hoping he suffocates.

 

-

 

Harry makes his way downstairs in his suit and glasses. He has to return to HQ.

Catching sight of the open bathroom door, he sees that Eggsy’s wearing his atrocious jacket again along with the whole ensemble. There’s nothing more Harry wants to do than take the ridiculous flat-peak cap off his head.

So of course, he makes his way there. The boy is too busy looking down at himself, clearly debating whether or not to use the belt on the sink counter to really notice.

Which is, in a way, disappointing, if not mildly irritating. Eggsy is literally in front of a mirror. He should be able to see Harry in his peripherals, regardless.

But he doesn’t make any indication of it as Harry makes his way closer.

It’s not until Harry presses himself against Eggsy’s back that he hears-- _feels_ \--the boy’s breath hitch.

And it strikes Harry then; Eggsy has _always_ been aware.

He simply needed a way to beguile Harry to come near.

In spite of the initial affront at being manipulated, he finds himself...elated at that.

The audacity of this boy. The cheek. The insight.

The cunning _brilliance_.

Eggsy leans back against him, breathing gone shallow.

Harry regards their reflection in the mirror, meeting Eggsy’s gaze.

Swallowing, Eggsy closes his eyes.

Harry’s hands come up to grasp at his hips.

“Do you truly believe it’s subtle,” Harry murmurs into his ear, “The way you’re grinding back against my cock?”

There’s a sharp exhale, and Eggsy’s hands cover Harry’s, gripping.

“No, I think not.” Harry tells him quietly.

A questioning noise leaves Eggsy’s throat, and Harry’s hold on him tightens.

“You’ll put your hands behind your back,” says Harry.

“Yeah?” Eggsy croaks, falling short in his challenging tone.

“Yes,” Harry declares, “Because you’re a good boy.”

Eggsy groans, hands moving behind him, taking the chance to brush against Harry’s cock through the trousers.

Gritting his teeth, Harry holds Eggsy’s wrists in his left hand.

“Naughty,” he chides, trying not to let on how affected he is.

Shuddering, Eggsy bites down at his lip. Harry watches him through the mirror for a few seconds, getting his fill.

“Look at you--Trembling,” He observes, quietly aghast, throat gone dry, “I’ve barely even started.”

Eggsy jerks back against him, almost involuntary.

Of course-- _Of course_ , Harry takes pity. His right hand slowly makes its way to the front of Eggsy’s torso, and he occasionally glances at their reflection, because how can he not?

Harry’s thumb purposely goes under Eggsy’s shirt, so when he sets his the heel of his palm tight against it and pulls _up_ \--Eggsy’s abdomen is revealed, the muscles clenching tight; Harry eyes the moles spattered on his skin and the light trail of hair leading down to disappear underneath his jeans.

Sighing, Eggsy lolls his head back against Harry’s left shoulder.

“What would you like?” Harry questions, polite.

Eggsy whines.

“Words, darling,” The tips of his fingers slip through Eggsy’s jeans, exposing the top band of his underwear.

A large gulp of air does Eggsy no good when he only exhales it in a rush after a brief pause. It almost sounds like a sob.

Maybe it is.

“Lemme touch you,” Eggsy bursts out.

Harry stills in his movements. One look at the mirror and it's clear to him that Eggsy's taken a courageous risk in asking. The embarrassment is _endearing_ as Eggsy tries to hide his face against the crook of Harry's neck, gasping, “Please.”

Harry’s hold on his wrists automatically loosens. And Eggsy immediately takes the chance to grip at Harry's right shoulder while his left hand reaches back to grab at Harry's arse, pulling him closer as if there's a way to make them even closer than they are now.

The pleasure at the way Eggsy grinds back is intoxicating, along with his heady scent. Harry thinks he can taste the sweat of him on his tongue as he breaths him in. His mouth waters.

“What else?” Harry breathes.

“Touch me,” gasps Eggsy.

And of course, what else could Harry do but resume in his exploration?

The tips of his fingers breach the band of his underwear, but he stops before he gets any further.

Eggsy keens in frustration.

“May I?” Harry whispers against his ear.

“Fucking--” Gritting his teeth, Eggsy bucks, trying to get Harry's fingers in his pants, “Hell _yes_ , Harry, come on-- _Fuck_ ,” He heaves, desperate, and Harry finally plunges his hand in, gripping at the base of his cock as he thrusts against him from behind, testing.

There’s something about Eggsy’s delirium that simply drives him further. The sight they make, their reflection--It’s _exquisite_.

The way Eggsy shakes against him, panting his name, writhing as if he can’t get enough of Harry’s torturously slow hand on him, as if he can’t get enough of the hard line of Harry’s cock pressing insistently against his arse.

He watches their reflection, mouthing against Eggsy’s cheekbone. And he hopes that his glasses are recording, so he can replay this moment over and over.

“Look at me.”

“Hng?” Eggsy manages, eyes barely open.

“Look at us.”

Eggsy does, and he quivers, turning even redder. There’s a bit of shame there, Harry thinks. And it’s truly precious.

He hopes HQ is watching.

Harry helplessly shudders with steady arousal.

 

-

 

Harry helplessly shudders with absolute _hysteria_.

Sweating and panting, he jolts up from the bed, frantically kicking off the covers, attempting to make his way out. His legs are unsteady as he escapes to his bathroom, lacking all grace. He doesn’t even manage to hit the light on, missing it completely.

In blind desperation, he goes to the sink and splashes his face with freezing water. Maybe it’s better that it’s dark, that way he doesn’t have to face himself in the mirror as he tries to settle his breathing and his racing pulse.

The nauseating shame and revulsion has already taken care of his erection.

But he shakes, and he can’t quite stop.

His throat is tight as he tries to swallow.

Throughout his career, he’s killed an unspeakable number of people in many different ways and he’s never felt like heaving. Not like this.

He needs a fucking drink.

Erratically, he manages to put on his robe before making his way out. He resolutely refuses to look at the door to the guest room, but another surge of nausea hits him regardless as he passes it by. For all his pride in his self-control and composure, they fail him before he even gets downstairs.

Weak at the knees, he grips the handrail, and he ultimately gives in to sitting down on the steps.

Genuine animosity sparks and curls within, and he curses Mycroft Holmes for this _madness_.

This is his fault, his _idea_.

Harry is no stranger to the power of suggestion, and Mycroft Holmes has utterly done damage to his psyche.

That dream--that _nightmare_ , it was vivid.

Hatefully so.

The weight of Eggsy in his arms, his scent, his voice, his heat, his breaths--

Harry grits his teeth so hard that the pulsing pain in his head worsens, and there’s nothing he can do but lean his head against the wooden balusters of the stairs, grasping at them like he’s some sort of prisoner.

Maybe--maybe Eggsy’s not the only one who is deprived. Maybe it’s due time that Harry went out to find someone.

At the thought comes a swell of guilt.

It’s preposterous.

This whole situation is.

He closes his eyes and grips at the sore injury on his right arm.

In an effort to calm down, he tries not to think, and merely concentrates on settling his laboured breathing.

He doesn’t know how much time has passed until he manages to open his eyes, feeling empty inside.

Harry blinks, staring at his hand.

He finds himself out of place, strangely detached.

Unsettled, he continues to stare at his own hand--logically, he knows it’s his.

But it _isn’t_.

It's outlandish, how the hand clenches--he watches and he feels it do so, mechanically. Belatedly.

It’s a bizarre sensation, like feeling the motions of being stabbed but with the complete absence of pain.

It doesn’t feel real.

He looks further down at himself.

 _Harry_ doesn’t feel real.

 

\--

 

Eggsy doesn’t know what time it is. The light coming in from the window through the curtain is dim and grey. But honestly, that could mean anything in the current shitstorm that’s London.

He huffs, still sleepy. But something woke him up and he needs to take a piss.

His eyes are barely open as he drags himself out of bed and out of his room. It’s cold as fuck, so it’s only second nature to rub his sore arms through the worn sweats as he makes his way downstairs.

When he sees a figure sitting on the steps, it’s almost as if there’s a split second where his brain gives him the option to have a heart attack, but he scoffs at the idea, because it’s only Harry.

He absently pats his head as he passes him by and continues on to make his way to the loo.

It’s tempting to fall back to sleep as he takes a piss, but he manages not to do it. Washing his hands with the freezing water wakes him up a bit, and he decides to brush his teeth ‘cos the taste in his mouth is rank as hell. He’s never gonna drink again.

He blearily looks at Mr. Pickle, and mutters, “Swear down.”

Eggsy’s gingerly brushing his teeth, because his arms are still sore from his pathetic attempt at getting his polo-shirt dry from Yvonne’s party. So he’s been staring at himself in the mirror for a while, scowling at his mess of a hair, when he notices the design on his sweatshirt. He wasn’t really paying attention when he put it on last night and just went to bed.

There’s a weird looking peace-sign on it, along with the letters ‘ **G.H.** ’.

Same thing on his sweatpants.

He frowns, sluggishly trying to think what that could possibly stand for. It would be typically posh of Harry to initial his shit, but GH ain’t exactly Harry Hart, is it?

It could be Gary Hart, but then--

Eggsy almost chokes on his toothbrush. Abashed under Mr. Pickle’s judging stare, he spits out the foam in his mouth. The waves of absolute shame wakes him the fuck up, and that’s when he realises--

 _What the fuck_ \--Why was Harry on the stairs? _Was_ that Harry on the stairs? Was Eggsy hallucinating?

Quickly cleaning up his mess, he makes his way out to cautiously check.

Eggsy’s absolutely baffled.

Curled up, sitting on the steps, and leaning against the side of the stairs, Harry is seemingly asleep. He has his red robe on over his pyjamas, and he has socks but he’s not wearing those posh slippers that he always does.

So what is this? Sleepwalking?

Eggsy worriedly bites at his lip. Harry looks soft but worn-out, and it reminds Eggsy of how Harry usually is when he comes home from work. And he doesn’t like that. He doesn’t like Harry’s job, he doesn’t like how tired it makes him.

But Harry hasn’t been at work for a week or two, and the guilt washes over him when he remembers what trouble Harry went through to get Eggsy home and safe and--God, he feels like shit. His face heats as he quietly makes his way up and closer until there’s only two steps between them.

He doesn’t know what to do, fucking hell.

But his hands slowly hover anyway.

Despite what Eggsy wants, he’s not fucking stupid, so he starts with a light touch on his shoulder. When he gets nothing, he just presses a little more firmly, his thumb accidentally brushing the collarbone through the layers of clothes. The guilt prickles at him again, but Harry’s brows furrow a tiny bit before his eyes slightly open.

And there’s nothing there.

His expression is blank, and it’s stupid of Eggsy to be anxious.

“Hey,” Eggsy gently tries, hoping Harry meets his gaze instead of just emptily staring through the wooden bars on the side of the stairs.

The silence is somehow painful with the rainstorm outside raging on being the only thing to fill it. Eggsy tries again, lightly settling his hand on the place between Harry’s neck and shoulder.

“Harry,” Eggsy says, soft, but it has the opposite effect. Harry gets noticeably tense, slowly sitting up.

Eggsy swallows, hiding how uneasy he is, “Hey, come on.” His hands desperately make their way to the sides of Harry’s face, ready to make him meet his eyes, but Harry flinches, his own hands coming up to grasp at Eggsy’s wrists.

Harry slowly pushes, causing Eggsy’s hands to leave his face, and his grip tightens, bit by bit.

And it hurts--it _hurts,_ but Eggsy only bites down on his tongue and says nothing. He doesn’t know what’s wrong, but whatever it is, he wants to fix it.

The pain is near unbearable, but Harry ultimately stops, abruptly releasing his hold on his wrists when Eggsy’s hands manage to be a few centimetres away.

Other than that, they don’t move, and their hands stay motionless between them.

What the hell is going on?

Harry’s blinking, and he seems to be coming back to himself.

Eggsy ignores his racing heartbeat, keeping his calm. “What’s wrong?”

“...Nothing.”

Gritting his teeth, Eggsy makes his decision. He cautiously sets his hands back on the sides of Harry’s face. This time, he doesn’t get stopped, but Harry closes his eyes, brows furrowing, and his lips thin, grim.

It occurs to Eggsy then: This might just be what Harry Hart looks like when he’s in pain.

The thought of it leaves him in helpless despair, but it’s not about Eggsy--it’s about Harry, so he tamps it down and gently lets his fingers go up to Harry’s temples. Maybe it’s only a headache, and they’re both overreacting.

Except Harry gets worse, becoming impossibly rigid, and Eggsy huffs, trying not to get aggravated. Eggsy's hands slowly come up so his fingers can reach Harry’s hair, and he gently runs them through the sides of Harry’s head, massaging at the scalp.

There’s a small guttural noise from Harry, and despite the way Harry slightly turns his head down, Eggsy thinks they’re finally getting somewhere.

Harry’s hands are still tense between them, fingers slightly curled, so when Eggsy shuffles a tiny bit closer, Harry’s knuckles brush against Eggsy’s hips through the sweatshirt, and Eggsy resolutely ignores the dirty possibilities because it’s not about that right now.

Even if every part of him is screaming, _touch me, touch me, touch me._

He only keeps petting until Harry begins to relax a tiny amount. Barely noticeable, but it’s a work in progress.

Eggsy’s arms are sore, but he doesn’t want to stop in his ministrations, so he can’t help the need to move closer to ease the strain of it. The only thing that’s stopping him are the back of Harry’s hands, relentless in their position, a steady pressure against Eggsy’s hips every time he even inches a bit further.

Eventually, Eggsy has to falter in his movements to get a bit of reprieve, but that’s when Harry’s fingers stiltedly begins to clench at Eggsy’s sweatshirt. He tries not to let it get to him and waits. Even without looking, he thinks he can feel Harry’s hands tremble, and he does his best not to demand answers.

There’s a tiny bit more force in Harry’s grip, and Eggsy cautiously lets himself gravitate closer, going back to running his fingers through Harry’s hair. It’s fucking soft as he always thought it would be--But even better than he could have ever imagined, because it’s real, and he’s actually doing it. This wasn’t the scenario he was hoping for, but again, it’s not about Eggsy.

So he doubles his effort in ignoring how Harry’s face is only a few inches away from his belly.

“Are you going to tell me what’s wrong?” He asks instead, soft and far from demanding as he can be.

It’s a minimal movement, the way Harry shakes his head, and Eggsy only senses it through his hands.

“Hmm,” He gets lost in his task, giving attention to the back of Harry’s head, using his nails to slightly scratch at the scalp.

Considering that Harry hangs his head down and leans his forehead against Eggsy’s stomach, the ignorance is completely out the window. He sighs. “Should I guess? I can go on forever you know, get really annoying.”

Harry says nothing, and Eggsy suddenly remembers that Harry went for a medical appointment yesterday.

He freezes, panic on the rise. “You--” He tries not to sound wrecked, hand clasping at Harry’s hair, “It’s not fucking cancer, is it?”

There’s a slight shake of the head.

“Jesus fuck.” He resumes in petting Harry until something occurs to him, and he just can't help but check. “It’s not something _else_ that’s not cancer, is it?”

That sounds really dumb in hindsight but Harry should know what he means.

“It’s not--” Harry’s voice is hoarse, hands clenching at Eggsy’s hips, making him slightly sway forward. Harry’s mouth brushes against Eggsy’s sweatshirt when he speaks, and Eggsy can’t even be fucking turned on because he’s inwardly panicking too hard right now. “It’s not a...physical illness, no.”

Eggsy tries to relax at that. Losing himself in playing with Harry’s hair helps. He feels Harry breathing in slow against his abdomen, feels the gradual exhale right after.

“Eggsy.”

“Mmm.” He focuses on the short hairs at the nape of his neck.

Harry shakes, but that could just be the cold getting to him.

“Eggsy, you need to leave.”

It takes awhile for that to register in Eggsy’s brain, but once it does, he falters in his movements, blinking and uncomprehending.

“...Like, right now?”

The silence is interrupted by the distant rumble of thunder.

Harry huffs.

“When the storm ends,” Harry seems to decide.

Eggsy mulls it over.

“Okay,” he goes back to his petting.

“...’Okay’?”

“Yeah.” It makes sense. They’ve been spending too much time together. Maybe that's why Harry's not himself. Maybe he needs a bit of space. It’s actually a bit of a surprise that he’s lasted this long when he thinks about how Harry seems to have been living alone all this time. “I did tell you to tell me when you got sick of me. It was time.”

If Harry keeps gripping his hips like that, Eggsy’s gonna have bruises, and it won't even be from the sexy kind.

Eggsy sighs, but he makes an effort to keep it upbeat. “Don’t feel too bad, I was getting sick of you too.”

_No, you weren’t._

Eggsy scowls at himself.

It’s better this way. Don’t people always say something about absence making the something grow fonder? Maybe Harry will miss him. Maybe Harry will miss him a lot.

Eggsy softens at that. “It’s not like it’s forever, is it?”

“...No. Of course not.”

He feels Harry clenching his jaw, and Eggsy works on thumbing at the hinges until Harry relaxes.

“I--” Harry swallows, “I still have to take you to Oxford and Cambridge.”

Eggsy softly chortles in disbelief, “You’re mad, that’s what you are. First of all, I’m not Oxbridge material. Second, Oxford literally had to evacuate people ‘cos of the floods. I doubt they’ll have open days any time soon,” He continues stroking Harry’s hair, delighted despite his own protest. It’s the thought that counts, he supposes.

“When things have settled,” says Harry, voice somehow ragged, “I’ll take you there.”

Eggsy humours him, fond. “Sure, Haz.” 

“...Wherever else you wish to go, I’ll take you there.”

Eggsy vaguely considers saying Barcelona, just to test it out, but Harry keeps talking, quiet and partly muffled against Eggsy’s sweatshirt. “We had an agreement, you never did tell me what you wanted.”

“Which agreement? We have few of those,” Eggsy tells him patiently.

“You were studying for your exams. I told you you could go anywhere you want, have anything you want.”

“Oh. Well--” Eggsy bites at his lip, “Yeah, I’m still on it.”

“How much time do you need?”

“...September?” Eggsy tries to be casual.

Harry sighs, and while Eggsy still has a hand caressing Harry’s hair, the other has progressed to the back of Harry’s neck. The muscles are pretty tense, along with the shoulders to be honest. Ridiculous. The fuck is this shit? Is this from stress or what? Harry hasn’t even been at work, where is all this tension coming from?

Oh.

“Well, I suppose I could ask you to teach me how to ride the Ducati,” Eggsy teases on a whim, and he feels Harry grunt against his stomach in complaint. “I’m having you on, Haz. Geez,” He settles, getting serious, thinking about how much time he should give Harry. Three days? A week? “When I leave, take care of yourself, yeah?”

Harry says nothing, his grip on Eggsy’s hips clenching again.

“Oi, I’m serious. Get a massage or something.” He tries not to be annoyed at the thought of anyone else touching Harry, because Harry really needs a massage or some other way to relax. “Eat right and stuff--And hey, have all the fucking tomatoes you want. Just--take care, yeah?”

Eventually, Harry nods. And of course he won’t see it, but Eggsy smiles down at him anyway, relishing the feel of running his hands through his hair.

“When the storm ends,” Eggsy announces, a bittersweet pang rippling through him.

Harry exhales against him, almost shuddering.

“When the storm ends.”

 

 


	21. 20

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prolonged weekend of torture:
> 
> Harry tries to hold his sanity together. Eggsy is oblivious.

 

Eggsy stands in front of the windows of the living room, gazing out to the flood and rain as he holds the mobile to his ear.

“Mum,” he keeps his voice down, hyperaware of Harry on the sofa behind him. Eggsy had offered to help him up to his bedroom, but for some reason, Harry just gripped tighter at his hips and muffled a resounding ‘no’ against Eggsy's stomach, shaking his head. It was the closest thing to panic that Eggsy’s ever seen from him. And so of course, Eggsy had to coax him to the sofa. “Streets are still flooded, the tube’s down. I’ll be home in a few days, when everything's settled.”

“ _Eggsy, I’m sure some of the buses still work. And I can gather some cash to pick up where you are by cab?_ ”

“No, mum. Please,” He rubs at his temple. Fucking hangovers. It’s getting worse the longer he stays awake. “It’s fine. Just--be safe alright? Call me if there's an emergency.”

His mum sighs, resigned and somehow knowing. Knowing about what, Eggsy can't think right now. He has things to do.

“Bye, mum. Love you, take care.”

“ _Bye, Eggsy._ ”

The Ducati is being rained on, the floodwater halfway up its wheels, and Eggsy worries about it. But it's not like they can do anything that wouldn't require Harry getting up and doing stuff. He wants Harry to stay where he is.

Harry, who’s curled up and is staring into nothing again.

Seeing that the blanket left on the backrest of the sofa is still neatly there, Eggsy picks it up to unfold it gently over Harry. It's cold as fuck, but it's even colder if you're just motionless.

He sighs, but Harry doesn't even meet his eyes.

Is this from being drenched in the rain yesterday? Is Harry coming down with something?

Eggsy crouches down so that he's near eye-level when he speaks softly.

“Hey, Haz,” He tries to be upbeat without being overbearing. “What do you want for breakfast?”

Harry looks at him then, unreadable, but there's still no response.

“C’mon, it’s totally bacon, innit? I know you’re weak for the greasy stuff,” Eggsy tries. Getting nothing, he huffs a mild attempt of a threat, “I'm just gonna throw something together, watch.”

And watch him, Harry does--Eggsy thinks there's a bit of wonder there, but really, what does he know?

“M'kay,” Eggsy relents, sighing. “I'll figure something out.”

He briefly runs his fingers through Harry's hair before standing up and making his way to the kitchen.

Staring at the pantry, he considers opening a can of soup and heating it. And that would be fine if it was just _Eggsy_ , but Harry doesn't deserve that shit. Not right now.

Eggsy sighs, realising what he's gonna have to do. Going to the fridge, he takes out some meat and some vegetables along with the bacon. He quickly goes back to the pantry for more ingredients and grabs a pack of some tiny pasta he doesn't even know how to pronounce.

Considering he went to a posh arse school like Wetherby for like, a year, he's had some culinary lessons. But he was thirteen for fuck's sake and that was about two years ago already. So yeah, he's nervous as fuck, but he's doing it. From scratch.

Hangovers be damned.

He glares at everything with determination every step of the way, and reminds himself to keep having a taste, because he remembers Harry saying his spaghetti was salty. And just because Eggsy's winging it, it doesn't mean it has to be shite.

As he lets things boil and simmer, he goes on to set the table the way Harry taught him to but a bit less extravagant. They're only having bread and soup for breakfast at home, it's not like the bloody queen is coming over.

When he checks back in on his soup, he gets a text from Anna telling him the massage training is postponed until further notice. Which is fine for him, if not better. He wants to be here for as long as he can, do whatever it takes to make it okay for Harry.

Eggsy finds himself staring at the unused coffee maker.

“What are you doing?” Harry says later on, shuffling to the kitchen, hands in his robe pockets.

“Just sit at the table. It’s almost ready,” Eggsy tells him, distracted with crushing some crispy bacon with a fork. Multitasking, he pours coffee into Harry’s usual mug with his other hand and remembers to stir in a large tablespoon of grass-fed butter. Because Harry is a nutter who puts butter in his coffee. It’s just one of those things that Eggsy’s noticed when Harry was still drinking the stuff.

The mini-oven dings and Eggsy carefully moves to put the contents on a plate, rambling on absently. “By the way, it was lucky of you to get some fresh bread yesterday morning--London being fucked as it is, we don’t have to go out to get some.”

He turns to find Harry staring at him, staying near the doorway. Eggsy raises his eyebrows and nods at him to follow to the dining area.

“That’s coffee,” He hears Harry say.

“Yes, Harry,” Eggsy humours him, setting the plate and the mug down on the table.

“You hate coffee.”

“Yeah, but you don’t,” Eggsy tells him, adamant. “Go on.”

Harry stays where he is. Eggsy rolls his eyes, huffing. This just goes on to prove how preposterously far Harry takes the gentleman lifestyle. Unbelievable.

“This is just ridiculous, Haz. C’mon, I’m pretty sure you're going through caffeine withdrawal right now.” That's totally the reason for everything so far. Mostly. Eggsy's figured it out. “I mean it’s not exactly like it’s drugs, innit? But it's still addictive, and I haven't seen you drink it lately.”

“...Maybe it’s better to cut back on things that are addictive," Harry says quietly.

“Well _yeah_ , but you can’t just go cold turkey all of a sudden,” Eggsy lectures, mildly baffled. “I mean you could--But that’ll kill you. Take it slow. Don’t hurt yourself.”

Harry keeps his silence, staring at the coffee mug. Eggsy sighs, and carefully tries to hand it over, encouraging, “Come on.” He starts to raise it up higher, just enough so that Harry can smell it much stronger. Being this close to the coffee actually makes Eggsy's hangover worse, but he’s not gonna say that.

Either way, Harry stops him, a hand wrapping around the mug. Over Eggsy’s fingers. Because Harry’s hands have always been so fucking _big_ and fingers _long_ \--Even internal screaming is not an option with the two of them this close, it would be too obvious.

Especially under Harry’s fixed stare.

“Doesn’t it bother you?”

“Yeah,” Eggsy confesses, blunt. “But you need it. Take it.”

Harry’s grip tightens a fraction at that, but he averts his gaze, head slightly shaking.

Eggsy raises his eyebrows. “No, guv, seriously. My soup’s gonna boil over.”

Abruptly, Harry finally takes it, and Eggsy runs back to the kitchen just in time. He quickly whips up some scrambled eggs as he lets the soup slightly cool down.

“Here we go,” Eggsy announces when he goes to serve it on the table. Harry still hasn't drank the coffee. He hasn't even buttered the bread.

“Oi,” Eggsy starts instead of screaming, taking a piece of bread and buttering it. “If you don't drink the coffee, I will.”

Startled, Harry looks dubious, but honestly any genuine emotion on his face is better than the blank emptiness Eggsy’s had to deal with, so he just puts some scrambled eggs on the toast and places it on Harry's plate. “Swear down,” he begins to dish out some soup into their bowls, “It's like poison to me, but I’ll drink it if you won't.”

Harry clutches the mug and slowly places it out of Eggsy's reach. The numpty. Eggsy rolls his eyes. Why is he finding a man more than twice his age so fucking adorable? What is this shit?

“Eat your damn soup,” Eggsy mumbles instead, sprinkling some crushed bacon on his own bowl. Now it looks fancy as fuck. Harry should appreciate his brilliance.

Clearing his throat, Harry starts stirring his soup. “What is this?”

Damn. Eggsy could have spent the last thirty minutes making up a bullshit name. He honestly doesn't know what it is, it's just a mix of things. “Err, it's…”

“Italian wedding, perhaps?” Harry neutrally suggests, halfheartedly squinting at the stuff his spoon comes up with.

“Yeah, that's it. Definitely.” Eggsy nods, pushing the small container of crushed bacon as a distraction.

He tries to be subtle about peeking over at Harry when he finally starts on the soup. There’s a slight tilt of the head and then a nod for a reaction, and Eggsy doesn't know whether to preen or to groan. He loses all pretense when Harry takes a cautious sip of coffee later on. It's just a tiny sip. But the look on Harry's face.

Eggsy doesn't even realise he’s propping his chin up with a hand as he watches the longing contentment on Harry's expression. It’s quite brief, as it slowly morphs into something like distaste. It's subtle, but Eggsy notices. He probably didn't make it right despite his observation and effort. Damn. How is that his fault though? He’s only dealt with the instant kind, not the fancy legitimate ones with actual coffee beans and machines.

The reason Eggsy's never really liked coffee is because his mum drank so much of it to stay awake and work when he was younger. Their cupboards were full of it, and when they couldn't _afford_ to restock it in time, his mum--well. She got really mean and cranky, and even though she said sorry afterwards, he still doesn't like the smell of it today.

It's a helpless reaction, the discomfort in the pit of his stomach, the lightheadedness, depending on how close and strong the smell is. He’d always chew gum or pop in a mint when he has to be around it, but being in a posh school like Wetherby had him kicking that habit, and Holland Park wasn't tolerant of it as well.

But considering that Harry has a thing for coffee, Eggsy might need to get used to it. To get ready to taste it in his mouth and learn to like it. Day, night, when Harry comes home late and still insists on doing some work in his office. Eggsy would bring him whatever he needs. Do whatever he wants. He’ll even crawl under the desk--

His grip goes lax as he gets carried away, and the clatter of his spoon against the bowl brings Eggsy back to shameful reality. He promptly shoves some bread into his mouth. He wishes Harry would just drink the whole thing so he can get over the caffeine withdrawal real fast and take back what he said earlier and tell Eggsy to stay.

Which is selfish, really.

They need some time apart. Eggsy can respect that.

“You will be going back to bed, yes?” Harry stiffly asks all of a sudden.

“...Yeah? After I clean up the mess in the kitchen," He tries for humour there, but something about Harry's expression causes him to fall a bit short. “Why? You will too, won't you? You need the sleep. We both do.”

“I have matters to tend to," Harry quietly announces, thumb absently swiping at the rim of his mug.

Eggsy raises his eyebrows, uncomprehending.

“In this weather?" He slowly checks.

“Yes.”

Harry doesn't meet his gaze.

There are many reasons to protest, to convince him to stay home. But Eggsy does nothing.

He keeps his mouth shut, because logical as those reasons are, it could all be easily backfire on him. Maybe it hasn't occurred to Harry, but Eggsy's a step ahead: If Harry can leave in this storm, what would stop Harry from telling Eggsy to do the same?

Barely half an hour later, Harry's in his usual suit and tie, opening his umbrella before he steps out the door. And Eggsy peeks through the windows to watch him walk through the floodwater that’s nearly halfway up to his knees. Harry continues on to the end of the private street where a cab is somehow waiting.

Eggsy wonders what could be so important that Harry would suffer all that indignity.

 

\--» 

 

In the cab, Harry gives in to random sketching in his small leather book, but it really doesn't distract him enough from the issue.

Harry is attached.

And while he's been aware of that, he never considered that it would be because--

The issue here is that Harry has been lonely, it seems. And that's not the problem, that has never been the problem. It's simply that he's never let anyone in the way he has Eggsy because--

Who would have thought it would have come to this?

How could he have set up precautions?

Eggsy was a child.

How in the world could Harry even have thought to see him as a threat? As a potential--

Harry shuts his notebook and shoves it back in his inner suit pocket.

It’s a psychological issue. At least that part Mycroft has gotten correctly.

Harry has been lonely. Eggsy has been kind. Caring. A pleasant companion to spend time with.

He's experiencing some type of pathetic psychological phenomena. That's all it is. Like Eggsy, he's deprived of touch. That is the only reason why every instance is comforting, near the point of heady intoxication and--

Harry tries to breathe properly.

He needs to get out more. To involve himself with other matters and other people. To distance himself until such...inconvenient inclinations dissolve into something completely platonic.

And then he can stay.

Mycroft be damned.

Because the man _is_ wrong.

Eggsy is involved with Yvonne Jansen.

Just because the boy is kind and takes care of Harry doesn't detract from that fact.

A fact that simultaneously keeps him sane and irrationally near madness.

 

-

 

Eggsy’s just finished washing the pots when his mobile vibrates. He pathetically gets really excited about it too, drying up his hands real fast. But it’s definitely not Harry.

 

**21\. 07. 2007 - Unknown:**

_How bad did daddy fuck u up?_

 

Pursing his lips through the imminent shame, Eggsy thinks he has a good guess on who it is. Still, it can’t hurt to make sure.

 

‘ _Who dis?_ ’

 

**21\. 07. 2007 - Unknown:**

_I still have the woodenplaque and ur SugarDaddy stuff. When u cming over to get them?_

 

Eggsy rolls his eyes, but more messages come before he can even reply.

 

**21\. 07. 2007 - Unknown:**

_Unless ur grounded ‘cos daddy told on u?_

 

**21\. 07. 2007 - Unknown:**

_Did daddy get you in trouble? How bad??_

 

If Eggsy ever thought that he could escape the clutches of the Daddy Kink, this would be the time to be realistic about his chances. He rubs at his temples.

 

‘ _Yev, how’d u get my #??_ ’

 

**21\. 07. 2007 - Unknown:**

_Ryan_

 

Fucking Ryan. All in all, it should be a bloody achievement, having the most popular girl’s number. Even more so when she technically asked for his, and not the other way around. But he just has a hunch that this’ll complicate things some more.

 

-» 

 

No one in HQ gives him strange looks despite being damp with rain. After all, he’s not the only one. Even though the suit is supposed to be a modern gentleman's armour, it apparently doesn't have much resilience against floodwater and, going from Lancelot’s entire appearance, mud.

In the showers, Harry isn’t capable of anything but blankly staring at the sterile wall in front of him as Lancelot's voice echoes at him from his own respective stall, rambling about the likelihood of Arthur approving a winter holiday for the family.

“Maybe next year," Harry replies politely.

There's a silence bordering on surprise, and Harry keeps the chagrin at bay. He needs acquaintances his own age, after all. It must be done. Soon enough, after all the feigned interest, maybe he’ll actually start to care about them more than the baseline.

Kingsman has always been at the top of his list, what it stands for, what it does for the world, what it allows him to do. With that sentiment comes the casual professional concern for its employees, their own niche of a community that keeps the whole organisation working well. A close second have been the people and things he’s had slightly more patience and tolerance for. It's not exactly favouritism per se, but Merlin’s on that list, and because of Roxy Morton’s incredible antics, she and her family have been steadily making their way up, along with Quinlan (begrudgingly) and of course, Mr. Pickle.

The idea that Eggsy has managed to worm his way to the very top without him even realising is a grave reality he might just have to acknowledge. To finally get it over with, and to be able to adjust the situation as needed.

Therefore, yes. Harry will make nice with other people. And maybe the caring will be genuine.

Which is annoying. And it honestly seems like a waste of his time, but if it keeps his mind off Eggsy--

Harry pulls the shower lever to icy cold and lets himself suffer before finally shutting it off.

 

»

 

Amelia gives him a strange look as she passes him by to enter Merlin’s helm control. She does the same thing ten minutes later when she leaves.

He keeps his expression bland, and waits a few moments more.

This is all much harder than he thought it would be.

It feels as if he’s heading for his own execution when he finally enters the room.

Merlin is clearly preoccupied with several matters. As always. And that should be enough of an excuse to leave. But Harry remains, keeping quiet. Merlin is busy, yes, but it's not even near as bad as it could be.

It’s almost a full three minutes when Merlin finally deigns to look at him.

“Galahad.”

Harry nods. “...Merlin."

Narrowing his eyes, Merlin swivels the chair to fully scrutinise him. “You’re not wearing your sling.”

“It’s likely floating in floodwater somewhere," Harry lightly informs him.

Merlin scowls and turns back to the controls, hands working at top speed.

Soon enough there’s a knock at the door before it opens and--

“You asked for me, sir?" Mordred asks. The instant he catches sight of Harry, he abruptly goes rigid.

Ah. Right.

“Yes." It's fortuitous that Merlin’s still facing the screens. “I’ll need you to handle this post while I drag this incompetent idiot to medical.”

Mordred finally tears his gaze away. “Yes, Merlin."

The two of them briefly talk about the work that has to be done, and Harry takes the chance to eye the scarf Mordred’s wearing. It’s not against regulation exactly, but it's still out of place within HQ.

Merlin passes Harry by, going straight for the door and out the hallway, clearly expecting him to follow.

“Mordred," Harry begins, watching the line of his shoulders stiffen.

“Sir?”

“Later. My office--Paperwork,” He belatedly adds before leaving.

 

»

 

Merlin stares down at Harry’s injury.

“What part of ‘don't do anything rash’ means _this_?”

Harry purses his lips, taking his glasses off and stowing it away. He tries not to shift in his seat. “It was a rough night. I had to get home.”

“You easily could have stayed here," Merlin shoots him down with an irritated glare. “Since when have you been eager to get home? This is preposterous. Literally less than twenty four hours from my sound, professional, medical advice, and you’ve aggravated your stitches. Look at it!”

The skin around it is slightly red and puffy. It’ll probably hurt more to touch this time around.

Merlin sighs, long-suffering. “This better not be infected, I swear to the gods.” He keeps on muttering curses as he wheels the medical tray closer and starts to work on Harry's injury. He’s far from gentle, and Harry has no problem with it whatsoever. He has his head held high despite the pain, and he only falters when the involuntary thought of what Eggsy could be doing right now strikes without any provocation.

Harry’s jaw clenches, and he doesn't get to fully relax before Merlin notices.

Frowning, Merlin shakes his head. “What is going on with you, Harry?”

It takes a few seconds for Harry to work up the courage to begin this conversation, but Merlin speaks first. “Please don't tell me you’re having _relations_ with my trainee.”

Harry blinks. “What?”

“I saw you eyeing him up,” Merlin’s expression dares him to try lying. “Screen reflection.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Harry stares at him, offended, and goes on to demand, thoughtless, “Do you genuinely believe that I would go for someone that young outside of what the assignment requires?”

The moment the words leave his mouth, a curl of disgust and shame plays a cruel game in his stomach--and this time, he knows why.

“Not by default, no,” Merlin relents. “But I am aware of how reckless you can get when you're dreadfully bored. I wouldn't be surprised, considering you’ve been on medical leave. And I know about him _volunteering_ to supervise your house. You didn't exactly deny his request.”

Harry feels himself outwardly go blank. The thoughts in his head are rapid and increasingly overwhelming. There are several ways this can go. Each one has its pitfalls, and depending on what Mordred has said, if any, he could be caught out. He doesn't know what lie to tell. He doesn't know what lie _not_ to tell.

“Sex is sex,” Merlin abruptly says, offering Harry the rest of the bandage roll to wrap around himself while he begins disposing the medical tools. “You can get it anywhere. I suppose it shouldn't matter what age as long as both parties are consenting adults.”

And that, somehow, is worse. Because Merlin has a close-mouthed smile, clearly going for appeasing. It only serves to look _grim_. And Harry suddenly remembers their conversation a few years ago, after Gibraltar, when he was confronted with his relationship with Eggsy.

This is the moment he _understands_ \--His enlightenment, accompanied by a heavy swell of foreboding.

This is what Merlin has always meant, between the lines.

Merlin already had his suspicions even then, with his _perspective_ on what it has always seemed to be, from other people's point of view.

Harry has refused to see it, and now--he can't tell him.

Because Merlin _wouldn't_ believe him. Wouldn't believe that it was purely innocent, that it's not what it appears to be.

Merlin wouldn't even try for a smile, much less mollify him. He would be disgusted, the way Harry already is with himself, he would be cold, and he might even just scheme a way to tear Harry and Eggsy apart permanently.

Because despite what they do for a living, Merlin is a good man, and he would genuinely believe that it's the right thing to do.

And who says it wouldn’t be?

That is, if all the accusations were true. Which they aren't.

They aren't. Harry may be attached, but it's emotional, and Eggsy may have habits that concern Harry's house, but Eggsy is involved with Yvonne Jansen. Of all the things that could be Harry's saving grace, he never thought it would be that of all things. Yvonne bloody Jansen--

“--rry,” Merlin repeats firmly, hands slightly raised. “ _Galahad_.”

Harry blinks at him in confusion.

“Galahad, ease up,” Merlin tells him, cautious, pointedly looking at the way Harry's wrapping the bandage around his wound. For once, Harry does as he's told, releasing his tight hold with a sharp exhale. The pain mostly dissipates.

Merlin curses at him, finally taking over and rechecking his injury. “Fuck's sake. What is wrong with you?”

Underneath the anger and the frustration, there's something terribly sad, and Harry feels the same way. But he chooses to sound bitter in his articulation. “I'm not fucking your protégé. It was only yesterday we had a conversation about my _issues_.”

“I had hoped you were lying.”

Harry says nothing, only reaching back for his suit jacket with his free hand as Merlin continues rewrapping the bandage. “I was hoping that was the case, because either number one: I’m sorry for your loss--Number two: If I’m losing the ability to tell whether or not an agent is not completely telling the truth, I should quit my job.”

The guilt worsens, and Harry keeps his eyes down, fishing through his pocket for his small leather notebook. “I have some things to work through. I might need to go to psych.”

He can feel the weight of Merlin’s stare at that admission. “Erectile dysfunction is mostly a medical issue.”

Harry grits his teeth, adjusting the sleeve of his shirt and putting his suit jacket back on. “Mostly.”

“I doubt it’s wise for you to go to Morgause for this. Unless, of course, you were aiming for a little hands-on remedy--”

“That was years ago,” Harry snaps, gripping at his notebook. “Do not remind me.”

There's something like pity on Merlin’s expression. “Will you ever consider talking to me about it?”

 _I can't_.

“Someday. When you’re not busy micromanaging the state of international security," Harry tries for a bit of humour. “Every second you're wasting here is a rise in body count somewhere in the world--I simply need to get out more, to get in touch with real people.”

 _People that aren't Eggsy_.

There's a half-hearted scoff as Merlin properly disposes of the medical tools halfway across the room. “Next thing I’ll hear is you telling me that you want to settle down.”

Harry’s lips thin. “I can't. Arthur has plans for me.”

“Doesn’t he always?”

Flipping to an empty page, he hastily thinks of something to sketch. He hears Merlin huff.

“So you do listen to me every now and then.”

“Sometimes," mutters Harry, pen against paper, ready to start, but Merlin snatches the notebook away.

Harry blinks.

Merlin only rolls his eyes. “You should have expected that." He skims through it, unapologetic and inappropriately enthused. “Where are the shite landscapes?”

Harry manages to stay in his seat, finding that he doesn't wish to waste his energy to take the notebook back. Merlin has seen worse, and it's not as if he's got anything to hide. Either way, he scowls.

“What? It's true," Merlin insists, blunt. “Surely you still can't be in denial about that--You were always better at drawing people, but you were never fond of people much. And so you ended up with pitiful landscapes and passable animals. Overall shite with the exception of your insects.”

Glaring, Harry stops himself from protesting, holding on to the remains of his dignity despite the truth.

Harry has had to use his art in honeypot assignments, and they were very successful. Apparently, people easily believe you’re besotted if you carry with you at all times personally hand-drawn sketchings of a particular individual. Most of them were women closely connected to the target--wife, daughter, mistress--sometimes they had even turned out to be the main mastermind, and Harry has them in a sketchbook somewhere, in half-finished portraits, a few of them probably in the nude.

Therefore, Harry's work isn't shite. Harry's art has contributed to the state of international security, and for all that he cares, Merlin can choke on haggis with only the ghastliest of scotch whiskies to help him survive it.

Merlin frowns at the pages, baffled and dissatisfied. “What the fuck are these? Did you finally realise your landscapes were pitiful, and moved on to outer space?”

“I have no idea what the bloody hell you're on about," Harry holds his hand out for the notebook, stern.

Merlin only steps back further. “Seriously, what are these? Constellations?” Eyebrows knitted in concentration, he tilts his head as he holds the notebook in front of him. “Ah, no, wait--I think I'm getting something--”

“All this teasing and _abuse_ is ill-fitting for people of our age and profession," Harry grouses, getting impatient, and spurred on by a type of urgency. At last, Merlin begins making his way closer, flipping through the pages.

But he only steals the pen from Harry's lax grip before stepping back quickly out of reach.

After the initial shock, Harry finally stands, ready to take it from him by force.

“Merlin--" Harry begins warningly.

“No,” Merlin sketches something on the paper, and bizarrely, it riles Harry up to a deeper level. Merlin rotates the notebook in scrutiny, “Yes. It could be a person.”

Harry stills with a hand reaching out. “I’ve no time for your Scottish mysticism.”

Merlin gives him a dirty look before flipping it around to show him. “I simply drew over your seemingly random faint lines--which could easily be silhouettes, one with a particular jawline.”

Staring at it, Harry goes _cold_ , and he resolves to keep his eyes from meeting Merlin’s until he has full control of himself. As it is, his heartrate is _racing_. The dread is a heavy weight, threatening to drag him down through the layers of concrete and soil to bury him alive.

As he deserves to be.

“I need to go to psych," He finally says, taking the notebook and putting it back safely in his inner suit pocket. “I’ll be needing a sling.”

 

»

 

Past the entrance to the psych department, a section of the hallway’s walls are lined up with small lockers, intended for the glasses and concealable weapons. At the far end is the front desk, supervised by personnel who are thoroughly trained--in case an agent snaps and has a psychotic break.

After stowing away his items in the locker, he finds that he can't quite move, frozen in trepidation. He's faced lethal assassins and ticking time-bombs, and yet somehow, _somehow_ \--he puts a palm up to feel the small notebook through his suit jacket.

Harry must do what needs to be done to get this over with quickly.

“Galahad?"

Harry turns to see [Morgause](http://i.imgur.com/D4YIH9I.jpg) holding a finger to hush an assistant, ignoring the files being presented at her. Despite her mild expression, he can detect a hint of bewilderment, and he nods in polite acknowledgment, “Morgause.”

“Do you have an appointment?”

“No," He keeps his face blank, unwilling to give anything away. “I suppose I’ll go do that now, if you’ll excuse me.” Harry makes for the front desk, and he senses Morgause following him.

“No need. I’ll be taking you in.”

The assistant begins to sputter in protest, “But Doctor--”

The man is rendered quiet, and Harry thinks he’s just been served one of Morgause’s superior stares.

“Since when does Agent Galahad deign to voluntarily grace my department?" Morgause loftily challenges, overly-sweet in tone.

It’s clear that Harry's made a terrible mistake, especially since he ends up in her office, sitting across from the sofa in an armchair, doing his best to appear relaxed while assessing the surroundings for any surveillance cameras.

It’s meant to be basic procedure, for review and record. While doctor-patient confidentiality still stands, such footage can be used as evidence in dismissal of an agent among other things. Of course, he could have just gone to a civilian practitioner, but they’ll be easily bribed by the likes of Mycroft Holmes. Harry has to choose his battles. Either way, he has to fight them.

“Coffee?” Morgause asks in the background, somehow managing to sound shrewd despite the professionalism. “Just the way you like it, perhaps?”

_You don’t know how I like it._

He grits his teeth. The fact that she’s asking when she’s clearly already making it is preposterous. Even if the sound of the machine hasn't given it away, the smell would have.

“No, thank you.”

She brings it over on a tray regardless, along with a teapot and some cups. Harry regards her blankly. “You must have misheard me.”

Morgause raises a severe eyebrow. “Agents need their coffee.”

Slightly adjusting the sling on his arm, he replies shortly, “I’ve been on medical leave.”

“Yes, I’ve heard about that,” She muses, pouring herself some tea and carefully pushing the coffee towards him.

“I’ve said no,” He reaffirms, irritable. “Why do you even have appliances in your own office? Kingsman has enough facilities for it.”

“Because I am the head of this department and I get what I want,” She tells him simply. “Now, let us get to the issue at hand: What's wrong with coffee?”

There’s a small comforting smile--a twitch, more like--but her eyes are keen.

“There is nothing wrong. I simply don't feel like it.”

“Why?”

“I’ve merely fallen out of the bandwagon, I’m afraid." Harry lets the scent of it wash over him, and he closes his eyes. “Makes me almost...nauseous.”

“...Caffeine consumers don’t simply fall out the bandwagon, Galahad.”

Harry calmly snaps out of his reverie, opening his eyes. “That’s besides the point. I’m not here about coffee.”

“I’d beg to differ considering you look like shit," She tells him mildly, tilting her head. “But alas, what are you here for?”

To be fair, Harry knew he was going to regret his decision the moment he walked into the department.

“I was only here to make an appointment.”

“Congratulations." Morgause gestures around the lofty office. “Here we are.”

“Good. I take it you’ll be making me an appointment with a qualified psychiatrist other than yourself.”

A scoff escapes her. “You’ve managed to get one with the head of the whole department. Aren't you lucky?”

Harry bares his teeth in a smile. “Surely you have better things to do.”

“Yes, but once again--" Morgause sends him a coy look, clearly faked. “I’ve generously given up my time for you--Go on. Say something.”

“Frankly, I have nothing to say to you.”

Morgause doesn't even take offence, a curl of a smirk at the corner of her mouth. “Why? Are you worried that Merlin might hack into the system?"

Harry says nothing. Merlin should have better things to do as well, but there's always that risk. With the encounter they've had earlier, Merlin could be curious. And the sense of propriety between them has never been quite normal with what they do for a living. Merlin has seen Harry kill, Merlin has seen Harry near death, bleeding, desperate, and near pathetic, Merlin has seen Harry seduce and fuck his way through marks and targets.

But not this. Never this.

He can’t.

Morgause keeps her eyes on him, expression somehow gentle and severe at the same time. “While Merlin would have the guts to do so, he knows that I would find him and _personally_ hang him by his said guts, therefore--" She huffs, giving a little smile, more genuine this time. “Speak forth. Doctor-patient confidentiality remains.”

Harry regards her for a while.

“Even from Arthur?”

Her shoulders straighten. She’s clearly offended. “Of course.”

Harry has to be careful about this, to ask but not give away too much by doing so.

“Not just Arthur--but Chester King," Harry clarifies, eye-contact unwavering.

Morgause’s expression darkens. “I don't speak to anyone about my work, even if they are technically family. That old bastard will get nothing from me.”

“That wasn't exactly the case, last time," He reminds her.

“That was your fault," She primly shoots back, “I told you there was surveillance, but _no_ , you were always impatient--”

“I had asked you, if you wanted to stop," Harry recounts through gritted teeth. “You said no.”

Morgause sniffs, a smirk playing at the corner of her mouth again, easily giving it away. “I was rather enjoying myself.”

His stomach churns at the memory. And that's a worrying reaction. It should be enjoyable. It _was_. But--

“Also, I’m quite certain that I wasn't the only one. Unless you’d like a more vivid reminder?”

Harry blinks at her. “Are you propositioning me?”

She raises a chiding eyebrow. “Non-professional hours only, Galahad. Surely we’ve learnt our lesson?”

“...Aren’t you married now?" He asks, going for casual. It comes out wooden.

Morgause wryly sends him a mock-pitying look. “You didn't mind before.”

Bitter and failing not to feel a bit of shame, he tries to defend himself without sounding a bit too petulant. “You didn't tell me you were set to be married, you didn't have a ring on.”

She chuckles, “While not exactly forbidden for non-field agents, it's not encouraged to wear telling jewelry either. Plus, it's not as if you would have minded. You’ve slept with plenty of involved people before," Morgause reminds him, somehow chiding in her tiny smile. “You always act as if you're a gentleman saint," She shakes her head, “I see through you, Galahad. You fuck like a savage animal. Stop fooling yourself. I know you always try to be better than who you used to be, and that is _commendable_. But--This is psych. This is where all the dirty secrets are revealed and this is where they remain."

Morgause is darkly serious once more. “And Chester King may be my uncle, but this is my job, and I know people still have their doubts, but I _earned_ my place. Don't you forget that.”

It’s true. She is clever, relentless in her work, and more capable than anyone in her field. Harry attempts to settle and relax once more, but he can't quite help but check, “...And Mycroft Holmes?”

Her brows furrow. “Mycroft Holmes is a mysterious figure who rarely roams these halls. He’s the kind of man who’d rather attend brunch and help himself to the table, what would he want with you?”

“He wants me to take an assignment," Harry confesses. “Highly classified by Arthur himself, don't even try asking.”

“I take it you don't wish to go?” She surmises, adept as always.

“No.”

There’s a long moment of silence, and Morgause picks up a pen and a notepad.

“Why?”

Harry finds himself shrugging slightly, eyes averted, staring at the window. The rain has halted for now, but the sky is clearly dark and unforgiving. The storm will start soon again. It won't be long.

For now, Eggsy's safe at home. Most likely sleeping, comfortable and warm, and--The sudden pain in his arm pulls him from his thoughts. He eases on his grip.

“Galahad," She says quietly, hushed in her perception. “You want to get better, you have to give me something.”

He immediately glances at his watch. “I didn't expect to get a session so soon. I simply don't have time. I have paperwork to get to--punishment, I gather-- therefore, I must go now.”

“Galahad--”

“I need to sort it out. I need to decide whether or not I can trust you,” He admits, jaw clenching. “I doubt you’ll have the time, so assign me to someone else. Notify me for a confirmation of schedule.”

“I’ll make time. I’ll also be sending you a form to complete before the next session." Morgause raises her eyebrows, challenging. “Also, the coffee’s still warm.”

He glances at it.

“Galahad," She sighs. “People need all kinds of outlets, especially in this line of work. Something constant, something alleviating, something that can also be found _outside_ the confines of the profession." Morgause gives him a stern look. “So it can't all be killing and violence unless you're a serial killer part-time. For some people it’s sex, for some people it’s alcohol, cigarettes, or something simple like coffee.”

Harry grits his teeth and tears his gaze away. “I’ve said it makes me nauseous. I don't know what it is," He mutters, “It simply isn't good as it was before. It doesn't taste right.”

“You’ve been on medical leave for what? Two weeks?”

He allows himself to nod, and she looks at him with sheer curiosity.

“What have you been doing to keep yourself sane, if not coffee? Are you having regular sex?”

Harry hopes his glare is scalding enough. Morgause remains curious regardless.

“For most people, it _is_ sex, for some it's--again--coffee, or reading a book, watching a play, or spending time with family--but--that's not you," She corrects herself, clinical, “You don't have any," Morgause tilts her head slightly, watching him closely as she speaks, almost as if she’s wondering out loud.

“What do you have, Galahad? Other than Kingsman, what defines you? What keeps you going?” Her gaze bores into his, and the guilt rises and rises until he feels like he’s drowning. “What do you live for? What makes you happy?”

Harry leaves without an answer, feeling ill.

 

»

 

The questions echo through his head as he stares at his pathetic stack of files. He only has his left hand to work with, after all.

Killing a man, fine. Paperwork, no.

It doesn't help that he can't quite concentrate. Harry feels cornered, as if the walls are closing in on him from all sides. The weight of the small notebook against his chest is distracting but he refuses to look it over. He’s not ready. There’s a proper time and place for a breakdown, and it certainly isn’t here and now.

There's a knock on the door.

It can’t possibly be Arthur. The man is the head of an international intelligence organisation, he should have more important things to do than ruin Harry’s life more than he already has.

“Enter.”

Mordred comes through and shuts the door behind himself, eyes down resolutely at the files he’s holding to his chest. “Agent Galahad.”

“Ah.”

There are many options here.

Most of them reckless and unwise.

Harry takes his glasses off and stows it away in a specialised drawer. As his mind goes a thousand miles per second mulling through scenarios, his mobile _vibrates_.

Mordred meets his eyes at last. “Are you taking that?”

It occurs to him then, what it all might have seemed to Mordred that night--And Harry can't go too far in speculating and going over it again from Mordred’s point of view. It's hardly any good for his mental health. Just how often can a man break in so little time?

Well, to be fair, he knows the answer to that question. He simply didn't think it would ever apply to him.

The discomfort is steadily on the rise, but he keeps it well out of sight. He only holds Mordred’s gaze, nonchalant. “Why should I?"

“I--It’s none of my business." He looks to the folders and makes to place them on Harry’s desk, arm outstretched so he doesn't have to get too close.

“Correct. It isn't," Harry affirms, and Mordred flinches, hastily taking his arm back.

“Just need a few signatures," He mutters, “Or I can come back for them, yes, that's definitely good--”

Harry sighs. “Mordred.”

There’s a tense silence. Harry gives into checking his mobile to ease the tension.

 

_1 Missed Call_

_2 Unread Messages_

 

**21\. 07. 2007 - Excalibur:**

_Woops. Wrong button. Sorry. Butt dial._

 

Harry refuses to remind Eggsy that he has a flip phone. But who knows? With that boy, anything’s possible, he supposes. Even butt dials with flip phones.

 

**21\. 07. 2007 - Excalibur:**

_You’re probably busy, that's fine. Are you coming home for late lunch? Should I cook dinner for two later or..?_

 

Harry stares, tamping down a quiet lethal panic threatening to overtake him.

 _That shouldn’t be sweet_ , He thinks, a bit desperate.  _That shouldn't be--_

He flips his mobile shut. “Mordred, what you saw that night--”

“I didn't see anything!"

Harry levels him with a patronising look as he starts on the new stack of files. “I am trying to apologise,” He manages, “Don't make this difficult for me.”

The shock is evident on Mordred’s expression. Which is frankly insulting. It should be known that Harry takes the gentleman business to heart--whatever Merlin and Morgause might have to say about that. Granted, he's been out of sorts _lately_ , however--

“Ah, well,” Mordred weakly lets out. “No, I understand. It was my fault.”

_Clearly._

“Mordred--”

“I was in your territory, you were right," He insists. “I’ve seen enough documentaries to know these things.”

“...‘ _Documentaries_ ’?” Harry repeats, blank.

“Well, you know--Discovery channel? Animal kingdom stuff?” He fidgets in place, clearly chagrined. “With what happens to outsiders who encroach on an Alpha’s territory--with their _mate_ present, no less--I’m just thankful you left me alive, sir.”

Harry stares, mouth slightly open, feeling the most graceless that he’s ever been outside the field. The shame is _overwhelming_ in its _burn_ once he fully decodes the words. He doesn't even know where to fucking begin. For once, he hopes his analysis is wrong.

“Mordred," Harry manages through gritted teeth. Never in his life does he recall actually feeling the _heat_ emanating from his own face. He resolutely looks over the new files. “First of all, it's-- _no_. Because that would mean that you _do_ remember.”

“No, you’re right, sir. I know nothing.”

“I’m glad we have that cleared up.”

For a moment, the only sound in the room is Harry’s pen against paper when he signs some documents.

“Honestly," Mordred tries. “I was so drunk I just remember parts.”

“What parts are those?”

The silence is stifling.

“Mordred, it is not what it appears to be," Harry begins, serious and earnest as he can. He needs for someone to understand the truth. He needs a tether to sanity. “We were both in the wrong. I admit that I may have overreacted. It wasn’t fair of me to treat you that way--At least, not to that degree.”

Clearly trying not to fidget, Mordred worries at his lip, and Harry involuntarily thinks of Eggsy. It's helpless and it's _maddening_. But he can't fall apart. Not here. Not now. He only gathers the files into a proper stack and holds it out for Mordred who shuffles closer to take it--but Harry keeps his hold on them, eyeing the scarf that's been bothering him. “Take it off.”

“What?" Mordred’s eyes are wide and his mouth is parted. Harry chooses not to groan in agony.

“I didn't call you over so I could fuck you over the desk," He tells him shortly. “It crossed my mind. I politely decline the prospect. It's unprofessional. Like the scarf you're wearing. It's doesn't even match your entire attire, not to mention it can easily be used to strangle you. Take it off.”

Mordred swallows, but he slowly moves to follow Harry's order. His hesitation ultimately makes sense.

And Harry is speechless. Mordred doesn't meet his eyes, and that’s when it truly dawns on him.

There are bruises on Mordred’s throat. And Harry put that there.

The worst part is, Mordred clearly feels some attraction still. What kind of person likes someone who's already proved to be a serious danger to them?

Clearing his throat, Mordred keeps his head held high despite not meeting Harry's gaze. “Is that really the only reason? Professionalism?”

Harry tries not to choke on the implications of the real question behind it: ‘ _Is it really professionalism and not that boy I saw in your house?’_

“Put the scarf back on, Mordred," Harry murmurs, making sure the psych assessment paper is in his briefcase as he packs up, “I take it you’ve had your lunch?”

“Err, my lunch break passed me by about two hours ago. I was busy,” he admits.

Sighing, Harry nods. “So was I. Finish up any immediate work. Have a late lunch with me--If you don't mind terribly.”

The words have barely left him when his stomach churns as if he's doing something wrong.

“What happened to professionalism?" Mordred asks.

Harry pointedly raises his eyebrows. “It’s merely lunch between two colleagues.”

“That’s--I’m practically a trainee but--” Mordred lets out a rush of breath, nodding. “Okay.”

They garner a few looks in the mess hall, but there's barely anyone there to begin with. That doesn't mean there isn't surveillance, so when he and Mordred make their conversation, it's reserved and polite. Merlin will eventually see the footage once the news gets to him.

For now, Harry aims to make Mordred relax, and truthfully, he needs to be alleviated of some guilt. Harry needs all the allies he can. It is unwise to make enemies.

Especially with the situation as it is, tumultuous and unpredictable.

 

\--»

 

Eggsy shifts awake, getting his wits about him. There’s no light in the room except for the television, and it's starting to get dark outside, so it must be nearing well into the evening. It's cold as fuck though, so he just snuggles against the blanket as much as he can, smelling Harry on it.

Ultimately, he realises that Harry is actually standing a good distance away, nearly out of sight, just staring. And it isn't a dream.

A strange noise escapes Eggsy without permission, and he tries to sit up on the sofa, rubbing at his face. “You’re home.”

“...Yes.”

Pulling the blanket up to his shoulders, Eggsy takes a moment just to take him in. Because he likes doing that. He likes being able to take him apart and figure him out, the way he hopes no one else does. Unfortunately, Harry’s got that stoic thing down, but it doesn't have the full effect, considering he looks like a partly-drowned puppy.

Eggsy rubs at his face again, huffing. “Can you please go up and take a shower? Change into something warm? You’re the one always going on about sickness and health. You--”

Harry moves, and Eggsy sees that he has a few _familiar_ bags in hand. He squints, disbelieving. This can't possibly be real right now--But Harry’s setting the bags down on the floor, against the sofa.

“These are yours," Harry says quietly, before turning around to presumably go up and change.

Eggsy can't do anything but gawk.

He resolutely doesn't touch them and stays in his spot, wrapping the blanket fully around himself and muting the telly. He doesn't know how much time has passed but he hears Harry making his way down the stairs.

By then, Eggsy's drowsy again and also really, _really_ annoyed. Because Harry hasn't replied _at all_ today and--

“Have you eaten yet?"

Eggsy scowls. Tries to, anyway. “Yeah, of course."

Like, what, did he think Eggsy would wait for his dumb arse?

Of course not.

His stomach growls, giving it away. Fucking traitor.

He curls up and gives in to falling face first against the sofa’s armrest. First of all, Eggsy doesn't have the right to be annoyed. There wasn't a gun to his head forcing him to wait for Harry to get home. Second, Harry needs his space and wants him to leave, so he can't complain or else he’ll annoy Harry more than he already has. Third, again, he doesn't have a right to anything. So he needs to keep his mouth shut.

“I’ve brought dinner," Harry tells him. “It's in the kitchen.”

Eggsy grunts against the cushions before turning his head to the side, staring down at the bags. “It’s gotta be the worst day in London, and--”

“--I take it you don't remember the blitz?”

“ _Oh my god,_ ” Eggsy groans. “You’re not even _that_ old, and I meant weather-wise. It's the worst day in London _weather-wise_ and somehow you’ve gone shopping?”

He hears Harry huff. “You haven't opened them.”

“Well, no." Eggsy frowns. “I wasn't sure it was real. Again, streets are flooded. And you said you had ‘matters to tend to’. Last thing I expected was this.”

“Oxford Street just had a few puddles at best. I was passing by.”

It's so fucking casual, the way he says it, so Eggsy's pretty sure it's a bit of an understatement. He doesn’t know why he knows it. It's just a Harry thing.

“Don’t you want to see what's inside?" Harry softly coaxes, half-hearted.

There’s something sad about it, and the fact that he doesn't know what it is--it pisses him off.

_I don't want your damn shopping, I just wanted you home._

Eggsy sits up and pulls up the Selfridges bags, setting them in front of him. Harry turns a lamp on, flooding the room with a soft, warm light as Eggsy takes the stuff out and helplessly makes faces at them. He's not being ungrateful, he's just confused. And it must be clear because Harry says something about each one, almost as an explanation.

Which is unnecessary. It's self-explanatory, the light to heavy raincoats and the Wellington boots and all the other items, clearly for the shitstorm that is their current predicament. But that's not what's confusing him.

Actually, he doesn’t know what's confusing him. He's a bit slow. That's what happens when you’re cold, hungry, and a bit tired.

Eventually, he ends up pulling out three polo-shirts, one of which is practically the same as he had, just a slightly different colour, and the last two are a [long-sleeved](http://i.imgur.com/2Pho4Xj.png) version of both. Eggsy can't help but soften up just a little bit because--"There you go again, black and gold.”

He gazes up at Harry, fully taking him in. And Eggsy wonders just how many red robes he has, or if he's wearing the same one he always does. More importantly, he wonders why Harry stays standing a few steps away. It makes Eggsy want to squirm and make a grab for him.

“Don’t be ridiculous," Harry mutters, looking mildly uncomfortable, “It’s not black and gold.”

Eggsy raises his eyebrows, slowly turning the shirt over towards him. “You’re right. This one’s black and yellow, like the one I have drying in the bathroom. But _these_ two are black and gold.”

“It’s not gold," Harry insists, and Eggsy doesn't know why the fuck he’s being in so much denial over a shirt colour. The worst part is it's really cute, and he’s clearly a goner for Harry fucking Hart. It’s just embarrassing.

Trying not to laugh, Eggsy bites down on his lip. He tries to keep it serious as he slowly breaks the news, “I don't know how to tell you this, Haz, but it’s gold.”

“No, it is not,” Harry remains adamant. “Check the tags, it has its official colours indicated on it.”

Humouring him, Eggsy makes a lazy attempt. Frustrated and impatient, Harry takes a few steps closer and finds it for him, triumphant, “See?”

‘157 _Black/Champagne_ ’, the tag reads.

Eggsy gives Harry a weird look. “Champagne.”

“Yes. That's it.”

Eggsy bites down on his lip again, managing to keep a straight face as he nods.

_Sure, babe, champagne._

Harry's expression dares him to say otherwise.

They stew in the silence for a bit, and Eggsy finally figures out what confused him in the first place.

“What are these for?” He asks, belatedly adding, “And don't say weather. I know. But--” He can't really explain it. There’s something about this whole thing. “Why? I don't need them, not really?”

“Yes, you do," says Harry, taking a step backwards.

What the fuck?

There's a brief moment where Eggsy sees himself being forced to go back to his mum right this instant, wearing all these. And it's so ridiculous that he wants to laugh. Because Harry wouldn't do that. It's late. It's cold, and it's raining again. Harry wouldn't do that.

“Well, it's not like I’m gonna be spending my days running around outside, this storm shouldn't last long. A week at most, and that's just reaching. It's probably gonna be hot again right after. It _is_ technically summer. So these--it looks really expensive by the way--it's probably a waste of your money.”

“It’s not," Harry murmurs, not meeting his eyes. “You can use them when things get heavy in the winter. Or maybe next year. I’ve been told they're very durable. They could last you a long while. Who knows---It’s been a long day. You should go up and sleep in a proper bed. After you eat.”

It’s a bit odd, how Harry doesn't complain or make a lesson out of Eggsy shuffling into the kitchen with the blanket wrapped around himself. He only offers to turn the radiator on, and Eggsy refuses, clutching the blanket around him tighter. As Eggsy eats, he can hear Harry busying himself in the kitchen. But mostly he can just feel himself being watched. And he spends most of the time second guessing whether or not he’s delusional until he cleans up and drags himself up to bed.

 

\--»

 

It is past midnight, and Harry continues on taking out the boxes deep from the locked storage room as quietly as he can. He’d bring them up to his office, but that takes far too much effort at the moment, especially with his right arm as it is. Realistically, there’s not enough time to rifle through them all until the sun comes up, so he settles for seven boxes in the living room.

These boxes contain baubles and little things accumulated over time, along with all his collected artwork--or at least his attempt of them across different platforms. Rolls of canvas, stacks upon stacks of notebooks, specialised papers. It’s been a long time since he’s gone over them, therefore, whatever he’ll find, it’ll be a surprise.

 _A particular jawline_ , Merlin had said. There has to be some mark or target with that feature. Along with spattering of moles as well. Maybe Harry was drawing them from muscle memory. That’s it.

Harry will find them within these boxes.

Sitting down on the sofa, he pulls out his current notebook from his dressing robe pocket, taking a moment to prepare himself before he opens it. It has to be done, for reference, before he pores over his past work to search for a similarity.

With everything that has happened in the past forty eight hours, his perception has changed significantly. Even with that knowledge, Harry can’t quite keep the nauseous dread that rises steadily with each turn of a page.

It’s even more senseless how he stares, riveted at the light absent-minded scribbles on paper, both in ink and charcoal, the seemingly innocent squiggles of dots and--He _can’t_. The notion of his subconscious undermining him like this, the mere thought of it, the betrayal and revulsion it brings--it’s _overwhelming._

As much as he wants to, he can’t deny it anymore.

These sketches...It’s _Eggsy_. It’s the moles on his skin--the distance between them constant and drawn to a likeness. The shadows, the lines of his face, his silhouette, all from several different angles, always unfinished or discontinued.

The way it’s drawn, it’s subtle, not so different from a grand optical illusion.

But now--Now, he knows.

Harry cannot unsee it.

His hand is cursed with a slight tremor as it hovers above the lines, so very close to touching them. And yet somehow, he can’t bring himself to do so.

His breathing is heavy and unbalanced, and Harry finally closes the notebook, eyes averted to the ceiling.

In his pathetic attempt to curb reality, he is now stuck with seven boxes mostly full of unbearable attempts of art in his living room. He’s going to have to return them far, _far_ back in the locked storage.

Harry might as well go through them and suffer some more.

It’s a good enough distraction. The items in the boxes are dated, but in reasonable condition. It’s a mix of things. Old newspapers, memorabilia, several papers and artwork from different sources taped onto sketchbooks in chronological order for archiving purposes. He’s found a few pieces that he resolves to incinerate, in the possibility that Merlin might actually get to see them someday. Harry had always thought that when he finally died in the line of duty, Merlin would rifle through his work and laugh at them just to get the last word in.

Harry’s previous attempts at art mostly bring back a sense of nostalgia, letting him recall moments and even conversations from decades ago.

How seemingly fast time goes by.

He barely even notices that it’s already three in the morning when he distinctly hears the toilet flush. And that throws him off. Because that would mean he missed Eggsy coming down to go to the loo in the first place.

Is that due to Harry being partly sleep deprived? Or is his guard far too low when it comes to Eggsy?

On second thought, of course it would be. Harry has known him since he was a child. Eggsy wasn’t classified as a threat. There was no reason to--

Harry tenses.

There are hands kneading at his shoulders.

“Shh,” Eggsy leans his cheek sideways on top of Harry’s head, mouth close to Harry’s ear as he murmurs sleepily, “Why are you still up?”

Harry’s pulse is _racing_. He’s stopped breathing a long time ago. When he opens his mouth, he’s incapable of speech.

He feels the slow, torturous motion of Eggsy turning his head, mouth moving against his hair as he urges for an answer to his question. “ _Hmm?_ ”

Harry can’t even answer by the time Eggsy abruptly goes still.

“Err…” Eggsy begins before suddenly bursting out, “Is that porn?”

“What?” Harry flatly demands, thrown off-guard.

“A naked lady!” Eggsy crows, seemingly rejuvenated, hands leaving Harry as he makes his way around the sofa to one of the opened boxes on the coffee table. “Wicked.”

“ _No_ , Eggsy,” Harry tries to explain, hiding his affront and the stupidity he feels for leaving it out when he has a teenager in the house. “That is art.”

“...Sure.” Eggsy shoots him the cheekiest look of disbelief as he goes on adjusting the blanket fully around himself. He previously had it wrapped around his neck and shoulders like an oversized scarf, hanging down past his torso. What is with this boy and that blanket? Why doesn’t he just turn the radiator on? Did he wear that to the bathroom?

Eggsy steps away from the box to sit next to Harry, “You posh types, honestly. So repressed. Gotta call them ‘art’, huh?”

Harry only purses his lips in mild irritation. “It _is_ art. Learn the difference.”

“You’re all about learning, aren’t you?” Eggsy raises his eyebrows. “You gonna teach me that too, Mr. Hart?”

With all his power, Harry squints at the notebooks and the rolls of canvas instead before packing them up. Harry must be truly out of his mind to go through them while Eggsy’s still around, not to mention irresponsible. There are things here that Eggsy can’t see, things related to his previous missions and Kingsman. A whole different world that he isn’t privy to, violent and unforgiving. A reality that Eggsy should be away from as far as possible.

“More headlines from _The Sun_ ," Eggsy huffs. “Some historical shit, I can’t believe you keep th--Oi, wait--” Harry can hear him _pout_ for fuck’s sake. “This is you!”

“What?”

“You made this?” Eggsy exclaims, astonished. When Harry turns, he can see that Eggsy’s eagerly looking through a sketchbook. “It has your signature-handwriting thing.”

 _No_.

“Don’t--”

It’s too late, going by the stunned look on Eggsy’s face. Eventually, he turns the sketchbook around to show Harry the charcoal drawing of a naked woman around satin sheets, sitting up on the bed. “Wow, you were actually drawing them French girls, huh?”

Harry cautiously makes his way closer, hands reaching out for the sketchbook. He remembers that particular work. A honeypot assignment in Bulgaria back in nineteen ninety-one. It had gone on far longer than intended, and it had evolved to him having to pretend he was in love with her.

More importantly, he also remembers the assignment after that.

_Don’t turn the page, don’t turn the page._

Eggsy turns the page.

His expression doesn't really change, but it somehow appears shuttered to Harry. Eggsy stares at the open sketchbook for what feels like a torturous amount of time. And his outburst doesn't have the energised effect with how hushed it comes out:

“Well, that’s a big dick if I ever saw one."

Harry might be ready to die.

Eggsy startles, hastily backtracking, “Not that I would know. Or seen any. Other than mine, I mean.”

Harry snatches the sketchbook from him and turns away to find the proper box it's supposed to go in.

“Who’s he?" Eggsy suddenly asks, _excessive_ in his bright enthusiasm. Harry can sense him moving about, looking through more items, and he feels like sweating as he gets more questions thrown at him. “Was he your boyfriend? What about her? Do you draw people naked, or do you sleep with them first?”

“Eggsy," Harry snaps. “Behave.”

“But--”

“Think of what your mother would say," Harry attempts to distract him. And it backfires. Because now of course _he’s_ thinking about it. What Michelle would say if she knew Eggsy was in his house at three a.m. looking at nude sketches and asking dubious questions. Guilt and revulsion claws at his insides, and it makes him want to heave.

“Harry?”

He grips the edges of a box. “...Please go to bed.”

There is a loaded silence, and Eggsy’s tone is grave when he says, “No.”

It makes Harry turn in question. Eggsy has a serious expression, clutching the blanket around himself.

“ _You_ go to sleep," says Eggsy, and it doesn't even sound childish at all. “When was the last time you even slept? The thing you pulled on the stairs doesn't count." Eggsy's eyes are sharp and piercing, and in that moment Harry wonders what it would be like to give in to the madness--To do more than sketch his likeness. He wonders what it would be like to paint him instead, or even watercolour--but Eggsy's eyes are a conundrum, he realises.

Harry wouldn't even know where to begin. At first glance it appears to be some form of green, when in fact there's more to it--a bit of blue near the darker rims, maybe flecks of gold bestrewn along the vastness of green. But then that could just be the light.

How does one classify this complexity? Is it green? Is it hazel?

Of course even the colour of his eyes aren't a simple matter. Harry can only think of sudden, _bursting_ supernovas that light up the cold dark empty universe.

“Harry?" Eggsy frowns, taking a step closer, looking up at him, concerned. “You need sleep. Go.”

 _I can’t,_ Harry doesn't say, unable to look away.  _I can’t--I can’t dream of you again._

He suppresses a flinch when Eggsy moves to wrap the blanket around his shoulders instead. “Look, I know I’m being annoying, and I’ll be gone soon, so don’t stress about it,” Eggsy huffs, concentrated on adjusting the blanket so that it stays on Harry, “But I worry about you, so...”

Harry can't even fully comprehend the words, because with the blanket not covering Eggsy anymore, it reveals to him what Eggsy has been wearing all along. And he forgets how to fucking breathe properly at the sight. Eggsy’s wearing one of Harry’s oldest pair of Kingman sweats, monogrammed ' **G.H.** ' for his codename and surname. The sleeves are too long for Eggsy’s arms, bunching up at the wrists, and it’s slightly just a bit too big for him overall, but he looks comfortable in it, like he _owns_ it already, and the barrage of mixed emotions overwhelms Harry so much that he finds himself nodding just to appease him.

“After I put these boxes away, I’ll go.”

Eggsy perks up. “I’ll take care of it. Chronological, yeah?" He offers, genuine, but Harry raises his eyebrows as if he suspects him of ultimately going through them for the nude works. Eggsy huffs and rolls his eyes. “Remember when you said my word meant everything? I give you my word I won't go through them for porn--sorry, _art_ \--I’ll just put them away, no funny business.”

That's hardly what Harry is only concerned about. There shouldn't be any classified documents per se, but Harry knows what he was like in the past. He’d go excessively far just to get a memorabilia of some sort, and he’d rather not risk it, even with the situation already as it is.

However, before he can make up an excuse, he finds that he’s already being coaxed out of the living room and into the hallway by Eggsy who’s walking backwards, lightly pulling at the blanket that he’s wrapped around Harry's shoulders.

“Compromise," Harry finds himself negotiating before they get to the stairs.

Eggsy raises his eyebrows. “Shoot.”

“You can help me tomorrow instead. Let us both get some sleep. Let us sleep for a very long time.”

After a moment of heavy consideration through narrowed eyes, Eggsy nods, releasing his hold on Harry. They both take their time in walking up the stairs, and they somehow end up lingering outside Eggsy’s door.

“You don’t trust me, huh?” Eggsy chuckles. “What, you just gonna stand out my door to make sure I don't make a run for your art?”

“There’s an idea," Harry mutters half-heartedly.

“I’m hurt, Haz," Eggsy dramatises mockingly before turning serious again, “Swear down, don’t worry about it, just go to bed," He offers a hand out, and Harry doesn't know what it's for, but he's sleep deprived, and that's definitely the only reason why he takes it.

Eggsy examines the hand for a moment, his fingers on Harry's palm a strange, heady sensation.

Things will be different tomorrow, Harry decides. He’ll be stronger. He’s a Kingsman agent for fuck’s sake. His resolve should be able to resist this. Whatever _this_ might be.

Because once more his own hand is beginning to look alien to him, where it doesn't look real despite all logic, as if he’s merely an outsider watching through this body’s point of view. Like it’s all a dream. Internally, some part of him is already a victim to a type of steady panic, but Eggsy’s hooking his little finger around Harry’s, and by the time the boy’s looking up at him, Harry feels himself returning to a state of equilibrium.

“I won’t sneak out to mess with your stuff," Eggsy announces, raising their joined little fingers before moving to settle their hands on his chest. “Cross my heart, and hope to die.”

_I’d very much rather you didn't._

Harry stares at their hands, quiet in his despair. He nods for the lack of words to say.

Eggsy gives him a dubious look. “And don’t think I won’t notice if you walk down the stairs to work on them too. I’ll know. I’ll hear it.”

Harry nods again.

They stew in the silence until Harry finally gains enough resolve to pull his hand away. “Goodnight, Eggsy.”

“Goodnight.”

Harry doesn’t even realise it until he settles in his bed that he still has the blanket around him. And that it smells like Eggsy.

 

\--»

 

“Something’s wrong, Quin.”

“ _Yes. Exactly. It's arse o’clock and I'm barely alive, and yet--somehow, you're calling me. That's what's wrong._ ”

“Oi, I mean it. Serious business.”

Quinlan sighs. “ _What is it?_ ”

“I don't know. But something's wrong. Off. With him, I mean. I just--sense it.”

“ _...’Sense it’_ ,” Quinlan repeats, flat.

“Yeah.”

“... _Alright. This pseudo sense of yours, it’s--_ "

“It ain't fake," Eggsy insists, mildly offended, “It's like spider senses. Tingling. But for Harry Hart.”

“ _I do_ not _want to know what is tingling for Harry Hart._ ”

Eggsy rolls his eyes. “You know what I mean.”

“ _Yes. And it's some kind of pseudo phenomena, I’m too lazy to look it up--Oh wait, not lazy, **tired**. Did I mention it's arse o'clock?_ ”

“Ugh, you wouldn't understand.”

“ _No, I do understand. I have it as well. I sense it whenever someone tries to sneak in my flat. Or when someone’s on the roof of my flat,_ ready _to sneak in, or when someone’s already_ in _my flat. It's called basic survival instincts and senses. It's not anything special._ ”

“First of all, that's a weird list of examples. Second, maybe your soulmate’s the creep trying to get in your flat. You should get a restraining order.”

“ _First of all--no. There are no words to explain how wrong that is. Second, ‘soulmate’?_ "

Eggsy freezes.

Shit.

“I didn't mean--" He hastily tries to explain, embarrassed and ashamed. “Like obviously, I was exaggerating. It’s not like that, obviously. That's just---gay.”

“... _yes, Eggsy. You, a budding young man, is in love with another man. That's a_ bit _gay._ ”

Eggsy sputters. “Don’t say it like that. It sounds weird.”

“ _Oh_ ," There's something like disappointment. “ _Is this sexual crisis two-point-oh?_ ”

“No," Eggsy immediately denies, “I know what I want. I want him and no one else. I just--I get really horny sometimes," He admits in a rush and it goes downhill from there. “And I haven't wanked off for ages, oh my god, there was this really fit girl and she offered to--”

“ _Why are you telling me this? Why must I suffer?_ ”

“I need advice, okay? This thing with him, it’ll take forever. And if that's the way it has to be, fine. I just don't know if I--" Eggsy takes a breath, “I’m just. Frustrated. If you know what I mean? Like, should I mess around on the side as I wait? Or..? I don't know, mate. It’d be better that way won't it? To take the edge off. And get some experience too, you know what I’m saying?”

“ _Why are you asking me? It’s your life. Unless, of course, you know that what you’re about to do is wrong and you need some validation to feel better about yourself._ ”

Damn. He can never pull one over Quinlan. He's too good.

Eggsy whines.

“ _Use your hand. You don't need other people. Deal with it,_ ” Quinlan says shortly. “ _Now if you don't mind. I’m going back to sleep. My health depends on it. Goodbye._ ”

 

»

 

For the umpteenth time, Eggsy's alarm goes off, and he almost trips on his way down the stairs to check if Harry kept his end of the deal. He’s pleased to see that he has, and he finds Harry in the kitchen, making breakfast with his sling back on.

The table has already been set and the kettle’s boiling, so Eggsy asks if he can do anything to help.

Harry shakes his head. “No, Eggsy. You’re a guest.”

And that--that just throws him off-kilter.

Because-- _I practically live here?_

With his brows furrowed, Eggsy keeps his silence and chooses to ignore the unsettling sensation in his stomach. It’s almost noon, and they’re only just having breakfast. It must be the hunger.

After that and the clean-up, they start in on the living room. It really amazes him that Harry's kept all these things from decades ago, and he selfishly can’t help but wonder if there’s anything here that relates to Eggsy at one point.

Which is dumb, because as far as he can see, these only go up to two thousand and one. Which would make Eggsy like...ten. And for a moment he actually does feel the gap in the years between them.

All these things are evidence. Evidence that Harry's had a life long before Eggsy. He doesn't know why that even upsets him. Of course Harry would have a life. Of course he would have hand-drawn sketches of people naked. Of course he would have had lovers.

As much as he likes to tease Harry about the art, Eggsy does his best not to toe the line between being entertaining and being annoying. Still, there’s something off.

There’s something about Harry, and it just feels like he’s...distant. Of course, he’s replying to Eggsy's quips and questions but it seems subdued. _Polite_. Not that he wasn't before, but Eggsy can't figure it out and it’s driving him mad. In an attempt to distract himself, he offers to turn on the radio for some news instead, despite the fact that they have the telly right there. Harry just doesn’t seem to be a telly person. Eggsy’s never seen him even interact with it, so he’s not gonna push anything and radio it is.

It goes on in the background, monotonous and unintrusive. Apparently, even the worst flooded areas in London should start to going back normal in two or so days. But that’s not even mentioning the damage that’s already been done and what it would take to fix it.

In between packing up items in their proper boxes and asking about whatever weird interesting thing he finds, Eggsy remembers to text his mum to check in, saying he’ll call later. He decides to check on Roxy and his friends as well, including Max and Clara, because it doesn't hurt to make sure that they're okay.

Eggsy finds himself looking out the window as if he can see the bookshop.

“What’s wrong?" Harry asks quietly.

“Oh." He shakes himself out of it, focusing on some weird Russian ballet pamphlets instead, mumbling, “Nothing. It's dumb. Just worried about the books and all. And the Ducati too, by the way. Not sure it’s healthy for him being out in the rain and all that.”

“...’Him’?"

Eggsy looks up, confused to find Harry staring at him without much expression.

“It’s an inanimate object, Eggsy. It has no gender.”

Raising his eyebrows, he immediately thinks of Mr. Pickle, but he doesn't want them to have a row, so he just shrugs and holds his tongue.

But Harry breaks the silence.

“...Unless, of course, you--Are you attached to my Ducati? Is that--”

“Psh,” Eggsy huffs in denial. “I’ve only been on it like...twice.”

“Right. Of course.”

He can’t help but tease. “Why? You offerin’ it to me?”

Harry shuts his mouth. “No. Of course not.” He turns away and busies himself with a couple of newspaper articles, muttering. “Your mother would kill me.”

Eggsy laughs. The fact that Harry takes his mum into consideration is really sweet. “Not if we ask real nice. We break it to her slow.”

“I honestly doubt that would make a difference if it ends up with you getting into an accident.”

“Oi,” He gawks in partially feigned offence, but he’s pretty sure the insuppressible grin gives it away. “You’ve no faith in me, Haz?”

“You don’t even have your licence.”

“Yeah, but I stole a car once. I have _potential_.”

Harry levels him with this stern look, and Eggsy bursts into laughter again. It ultimately tapers off when he thinks he catches something like agony flashing across Harry’s expression. But on second glance, it’s gone, so he moves on, helping with piles of artwork.

“All these masterpieces, Harry,” Eggsy whistles. “Who knew you’d be the artistic type?”

“No jokes, please.”

Eggsy scoffs. “What jokes? I’m not joking. Look at them landscapes.” He shows off a few. A bunch of them look like they’re of the same place, a countryside of some sort, but from different angles. Some are drawn in plain pencil, some are in colour. Eggsy doesn’t know of what kind for sure. “I’m not an expert, but I could get used to them.” Eggsy nods graciously. “I’d even put them on the fridge.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Harry mutters, taking them away from him.

“What? I’m being honest. I’ll even take the one with the weird horses.”

Harry shoots him with a scalding glare, clutching the large stack of artwork to his chest.

“But I love them!” Eggsy claims. It’s probably hardly convincing when he can’t help the grin, but he tries to get Harry to believe him anyway and keeps at it, “It’s true! I do! I love them.”

_I love you._

And his breath hitches because bloody _fuck_. That is some gay shit. Eggsy’s mortified at himself, and he can’t handle it, so he gives up and works on something else, purposely further away in the room.

Eventually, he comes across what looks to be a neatly folded jacket in clear plastic. It looks new. Which doesn’t makes sense, so he squints, scrutinising it and turning it over his hands. He’s pretty sure it’s hasn’t been opened. He thinks he catches a part of an IWM tag inside the actual thing, and the next thing he knows, he’s absently calling out for Harry.

“Hmm? What is it?”

Eggsy finds himself handing it over. Which is something he initially wouldn’t have done if he had the chance to do it again, because he wasn’t planning on it, but maybe this will be the time they finally talk about the stuff from IWM that Eggsy got for his birthday all those years ago. Still, he plays it safe, “Why’d you have that in here all this time? It looks new.”

Harry’s face is blank as he stares it down. It feels like forever before he speaks. “I suppose you can wear it now.”

Eggsy stares. He’s pretty sure that didn't come out right, the way Eggsy _thinks_ it means. He’s pretty sure that Harry didn't actually buy a jacket that was obviously three times bigger than eleven year old Eggsy. That just doesn't make sense. ”What?”

“I--” Harry shakes his head, starting again. “I bought this after we met. It caught my eye as I was leaving the museum. I thought I would wear it. I ultimately realised that was foolish of me. With my profession as it is, there’s an unspoken code about what we can and can’t wear--”

“Even outside of work?” Eggsy questions, appalled, “It’s just a jacket.”

“The point is, the opportunity never presented itself to me. And now it would probably fit you quite well. I’d like you to have it,” He offers it back to Eggsy. “Please.” 

Eggsy worries at his lip. “You kept it all these years. Why?”

“I must have carelessly put it in the wrong box as an afterthought at one point.”

With reverence, Eggsy takes it. And Harry’s still watching, almost expectant, so he raises a questioning eyebrow, fingers trailing at the plastic’s opening. Eggsy doesn't exactly know why, but it feels important. Does Harry want to see him in it?

Harry nods, and Eggsy carefully takes it out of its packaging. He holds it out, letting the [jacket](http://i.imgur.com/J9EV5mW.png) unfold by itself. It feels nice. Some low-key high quality shit. Looks nice too. And even before he wears it over his-- _Harry’s_ sweatshirt, he just _knows_ that it’ll probably be one of his favourites.

Which is weird. Because he usually prefers the kind with zippers, the kind that he can easily put on or take off, like his track jackets and hoodies.

He palms around the jacket. It feels good. It fits, and it’s something he can definitely grow into. The tall collar and the oversized hood makes it cozy, and the pockets are huge. Eggsy has that stupid, soft smile on his face, but he can't help it.

“Thank you," he says, hoping it didn't come off too breathless as he finally looks at Harry.

“...Yes." There’s something about Harry's expression. It’s not exactly stoic or even blank, but Eggsy can't really pin it down. If anything, he looks like he’s in some kind of quiet shock, the way people tend to look as their house goes on burning in front of them. Which clearly means that Eggsy’s intuitive reading-Harry skills has gone to shite, because nothing makes sense anymore. Harry opens his mouth. “I--”

Harry averts his gaze, surveying the living room instead. “Is there anything you’d like?”

Eggsy’s brain short-circuits. “What?”

“I will be leaving,” Harry reveals, stilted. “Once we’re done here.”

Eggsy frowns, hoping the slumping of his shoulders wasn’t too obvious. “...Again?”

Harry busies himself with a box lid. “Appointment.”

“Oh.”

What the bloody hell? Eggsy wants to call and yell at whoever this appointment is. Who sets up appointments in this weather? Eggsy works on the rest of the stuff left lying around, casually asking, “Medical or…?”

“Work-related medical. Company policy, I’m afraid. I’ve been avoiding it for a long time. It seems it’s finally caught up with me.”

Eggsy nods, “Mkay.”

Other than questioning what kind of tailoring company has medical policies, really, what else can he say?

“Which is why if you’d like anything, food or otherwise, don’t hesitate to contact me. I’ll bring it...home.”

They finish up far too soon than Eggsy would like.

 

\--

 

“It’s called dissociation,” Morgause tells him, looking over the psych self-assessment sheet he’s brought back.

“I suspected at least that much.”

Her gaze meets his. “Do you have any idea as to why?”

Harry shrugs, reminding himself not to move his left arm any closer to his right, currently on its sling. Apparently, he has a proclivity for rubbing at the skin under his watch. He’s caught himself doing it more than a few times. It’s a habit that must be rectified immediately. “I’ve seen it on the soldiers I’ve come to treat in my time with the RAMC. My main focus and training was on the physical aspects, not the psychological. But it’s clear that it must have something to do with trauma.”

“Which begs the question: What’s traumatised you, Galahad?”

He sends her an unamused look. “I’ve been on medical leave for weeks, I hardly believe there’s anything that warrants trauma, as ghastly as civilians may be at times.”

Morgause nods, “Exactly. And you’re not the type to be victim to it. Everyone suffers from trauma at one point, especially in this line of business. However, in all the years, the only time I recall anything about you being _significantly_ close to that was the issue with your candidate.”

Harry purses his lips, watching his left hand twitch. There’s that irksome sensation of restlessness, and he attempts to get rid of it by twisting his left wrist in circles.

“Galahad, with your stint in the RAMC, do you happen to know with which specific type your symptoms align with?”

“No. That’s what I’m here for, isn’t it? Self-diagnosis has become insufficient.”

Morgause stares at the paper again. “...It’s not as bad as it could be.”

“No?”

“There’s been a few people who couldn’t recognise themselves when they look in the mirror. You’re not there yet, are you?”

He grits his teeth. “No.”

To be fair, he’s been avoiding looking at his reflection lately. For as much as he can. While it’s a necessary evil, having to dress and present himself the way he does, it’s practically routine by now. He doesn’t have to look. He doesn’t need to.

“Is it only your hands?” Morgause questions. “What about the world? How does it seem?”

“The world is the world. It is what it is.”

“I find your deflection really interesting,” She comments, genuine, before cutting through his rubbish. “What I meant was: Does it seem real?”

Harry glances at the window, bidding his time.

“Derealisation,” Morgause announces. “It’s the sense that what’s happening around you is unreal, almost as if you’re watching a film. The people you know--they’re strangers. It also gives the impression that the normal surroundings and environment that one is used to has become unfamiliar.”

There’s a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach, and Harry can’t help but think of the hallways in Kingsman HQ. He keeps his silence, letting her go on.

“What you’ve mostly described to me, however, is depersonalisation,” She informs him, “ _You_ don’t feel real. You feel detached from yourself, from your emotions, from your own image. Unfortunately, either way, there’s not much concrete information as we would like. But it has been postulated to be a defence mechanism of some type. It’s your own brain trying to protect itself. It can’t handle the stress, the situation. So it shuts itself down, hiding away, getting the rest it needs. It’s a form of denial, in a sense.”

Harry refuses to look at her. It has become a steady irrational fear, the idea that someone would figure it out just by looking at him, that there would be confirmation once he meets their gaze, followed by silent accusations. “Is there a cure?”

“Medication? No.” Morgause presses her lips together and it almost seems like pity. ”Your options are psychotherapy, cognitive therapy, or hypnotism.”

Despite everything, Harry rolls his eyes.

 

-

 

Eggsy doesn’t know what to do. He can’t just mope around and wait till Harry gets home.

Oddly enough, he wants to go to work. It’s been closed since Friday, and the owner has excused them all from work until further notice. The flooding outside has receded a bit, so he could probably go sneak in and check if there’s been any damage inside the bookshop. With all the stuff Harry’s bought him yesterday, he could probably go out and not be soaked at all.

Which technically means that he could go back to his mum’s place.

Huffing, Eggsy goes upstairs to sort through his laundry instead. He’s leaving Harry’s place soon, the least he could do is clean up. That’ll be his plan for the next few days. He rings up his mum to check in on her again.

“ _Eggsy!_ ”

“Hey mum,” He squints at tags on the stuff that Harry’s bought him last night, realising another thing that’s been bothering him. The prices are all torn off. “Are you safe?”

“ _Yeah. A co-worker got her husband to take a few of us home! Real nice of them._ ”

She sounds happy, and Eggsy can hear music in the background. He tries not to sound too suspicious. “Hmm. You alone?”

His mum scoffs, “ _Why? I’m guessin’ you are, considering that you actually have time for your mum. Where’s your girl?_ ”

“Mum, oh my god! It ain’t like that,” Eggsy stresses, failing to ignore a bit of guilt at the lies and secrecy.

“ _When am I gonna meet this ‘Yvonne’? Hmm?_ ”

Eggsy groans, lying down on the carpet. “Never.”

“ _Gary Unwin, you better bet your arse I’m gonna bother you until you make us meet._ ” She sounds far too excited about the prospect and Eggsy whines.

“Mum, it’s nothing serious.”

“ _Pft. Spending the weekend there, shut in from the world. ‘Nothing serious’,_ ” She huffs, seemingly giving in, “ _Alright, sure, be that way. The time will come. Just you watch, son._ ”

He’s happy that she’s happy, even if that means his arse being tortured about this Yvonne thing. It’s been a while since he’s heard her so carefree. Listening to her humming to the music, he considers the possibility that she may truly well be over Dean. Or at least enough that she doesn’t think of him much often in a given day.

“And you?” He asks her.

“ _Mmm? What about me?_ ”

“You sound a bit chipper, mum. Anyone on your mind?” He teases, half distraction, half prying. Surely it’s too soon for that sort of stuff, though? Eggsy can hear Whitney Houston being dramatic in the background about how ‘It’s not right, but it’s okay’. That doesn’t have to mean a thing, does it?

His mum laughs so hard he can practically see her shaking. “ _Maybe I’m chipper ‘cos I don’t have to deal with your arse for a while. A weekend to myself! I can paint my nails without you complaining about the smell._ ”

“True that, mum. True that. But you miss me though, don’t lie. I know you lyin’.”

“ _Hah. Yeah, alright. Be safe now, you hear?_ ” It’s practically a threat, and Eggsy rolls his eyes. If only he was having so much sex the way people thought he was.

“Of course, mum.”

Just because his mum seems better doesn’t mean there’s a man in her life. She can be happy with herself. She doesn’t need no damn man. Eggsy doubts there could be anyone that could be better than his Da anyway.

And Eggsy should learn from that. Maybe he should stop being clingy. Yes, that’s it. He should try that. It’ll keep his mind off Harry being weird and distant.

After he finishes loading up the first cycle of laundry, Eggsy calls up the owner of the bookshop and offers to go to work tomorrow, to check for any damage. It’ll be good. For the both of them. It would give Harry space that he needs, and Eggsy gets professional initiative points in the workplace.

It’s only when Eggsy takes off his new jacket for the second round of laundry that he sees the actual price of the thing. Two hundred and ten quid. Bloody hell. Only Harry would leave something that expensive in storage for years. It’s good that he isn’t here or Eggsy would be giving a lecture.

 

**22\. 07. 2007 - Yve:**

_Oi. Alicia’s pre b-day party on tue!_

 

Eggsy squints at his mobile. ‘Pre’? There’s a _pre_ b-day party? Is that a thing? How is that a thing? Why?

 

‘ _’Pre’??? When’s the actual b-day?_ ’

 

**22\. 07. 2007 - Yve:**

_You’ll know when u get there. Just get ur gift ready._

 

He gives his mobile a patronising look as if Yvonne can actually see him.

 

‘ _What ‘gift’? For a PRE-party?? Nvr 4get--I’m poor._ ’

 

To be honest, he’s half-hoping that’ll get him uninvited.

 

**22\. 07. 2007 - Yve:**

_Think of it as a rehearsal._

 

**22\. 07. 2007 - Yve:**

_Just get her something nice. You could wrap ur dick in a bow for all i care._

 

**22\. 07. 2007 - Yve:**

_You DO know how to use it, yeah??_

 

It’s actually stifling in the bathroom. Must be the heat from the washing machine and the dryer. It’s a small room after all.

 

**22\. 07. 2007 - Yve:**

_Or do i have to give u a couple of pointers?_

 

Eggsy accidentally catches Mr. Pickle’s gaze when he tries to leave.

“What?” Eggsy prompts, defensive. “Nothin’, that’s what. I ain’t cheatin’ on your father, honest.”

All he gets is Mr. Pickle’s wary stare, and Eggsy doesn’t reply to the texts.

 

\--»

 

Harry is catching up on paperwork so much that he’s genuinely worried there won’t be any left for him to make excuses about. His session with Morgause was enlightening, and he knows he has to attend more if he wants to get better. As much as he hates feeling vulnerable, it has to be done. Morgause hasn’t been too harsh yet, hasn’t forced him to open up the way he knows he needs to.

In their encounters today, Merlin has been professional and civil. Impersonal.

So of course, Harry’s gone to a late lunch with Mordred again with, thankfully, the addition of Amelia. He reminds them to get some food under Merlin’s nose because he forgets to eat sometimes as well.

Eggsy hasn’t texted.

Which is fine.

Harry shouldn’t worry. The boy is self-sufficient. Capable.

Brilliant.

Exceptional--

Harry clenches his left fist under the table.

 

\--»

 

Harry comes home late. Again.

And that’s fine.

That’s fine. Why wouldn’t it be?

Eggsy gives him a casual nod of acknowledgement, quickly turning away to deal with the annoying chimes of the dryer.

Some long arse ‘work-related’ medical appointment that was. It’s almost fucking ten in the evening. But who’s counting? Not Eggsy, that’s for sure.

He has another round of washing to go through, but he should probably postpone it until tomorrow. It would be the whites and the light greys, which means he’d have to take off Harry’s sweats. And he doesn’t want to. ‘Cos that would mean he has to return it.

“Eggsy?” He distantly hears Harry call out, coming closer. Harry ultimately peeks through the bathroom. “Eggsy, I’ve been calling you.”

“Yeah? Well, my mobile didn’t ring,” He retorts in a rush, harshly taking out clothes from the dryer.

“...I meant--”

“Yeah, I know.” Eggsy raises an arm in a frustrated, awkward articulation. “I was making a joke.”

“Well, I brought dinner.”

“I didn't ask for any.”

He knows he’s being rude as fuck, but why? Why the fuck is Eggsy angry? He doesn't have the right to be angry. Is this what the big teenager cliché with hormones is?

“I know you didn’t," Harry says neutral. “You didn't text at all.”

Eggsy slows to a stop in his dryer machine scavenging. Is Harry upset? Why the _fuck_ is _he_ upset? He’s the one who wants space. He’s the one who’s gone for the whole fucking day. God, Eggsy needs to calm the fuck down. He itches to go boxing. He’d honestly settle for a rough game of sport.

He keeps his face blank as he slowly turns his head towards Harry.

They're both at a standstill. Their stoic expressions somehow make it tense, but Eggsy's hoping he’s just imagining it.

Harry eventually clears his throat. “Dinner.”

“M’not hungry," Eggsy turns away, going back to scavenging for the rest of his clothes in the dryer. “I have to fold my clothes before they go cold and wrinkle on me.”

He hates how hypersensitive he is to Harry, how he feels every step he takes behind him until there’s barely a sliver of fucking space between them. Eggsy doesn't even have to look. Harry's reaching over to take the last of the clothes, further into the dryer where it's difficult for Eggsy to reach. Which is annoying, ‘cos he's done _fine_ on the last cycle without him, thanks. Also, it's turning him on.

God, that's the fucking worst.

Eggsy hasn't wanked off in ages. He could’ve done it today, but he didn't know what time Harry would be coming home and he was too self-conscious about it.

Maybe that's one of the reasons why he's angry.

 _Why can't you tell me when you're coming home?_ He doesn't say. _You should tell me so I can wank off without worrying you’ll be around, making me feel guilty and shit._

With Harry being this close, Eggsy has to fight to not shut his eyes and to not lean back against him. He has to control his fucking breathing, or else it’s game fucking over.

“Dinner will be waiting in the kitchen," says Harry quietly, and Eggsy can feel his breath on his neck and--

“Hmm," He hums, shutting the dryer door.

By the time he’s settled his clothes in his wardrobe upstairs, he’s talked himself into cooling down. He doesn’t have a right to anything. He shouldn’t get pissy about it. Sometimes he really wonders if he’s just in over his head about this whole thing. Maybe Harry’s just being really nice and Eggsy’s getting false hopes. It always goes around like this if Eggsy gets to think too much. The doubt makes its way in and he second-guesses everything.

But this is what he wants. Eggsy wants Harry in any way that he’s allowed to have him. He should be grateful, he shouldn't take it for granted. Things will be better after they spend some time apart. It’ll be like a clean slate of some sort. Maybe Eggsy will be less annoying, and maybe Harry will even miss him.

And anyway, whatever food Harry's brought, it’s probably good, so he should probably give it a chance. If he’s honest, he misses Harry. He wants to know how his day went.

“How was your appointment?" Eggsy asks when he settles in on the dining room, keeping it polite. It’s part of the gentleman rulebook, isn't it? Wouldn't Harry like that?

“It was fine. Tedious, but fine," Harry answers, not giving much information as always. “Manageable.”

“Mmm." Eggsy starts on the fancy Indian takeaway Harry’s brought home and asks on a whim, “You gone again tomorrow?”

“...Yes,” Harry eventually admits.

Eggsy shrugs, nonchalant. "I’m guessing you’re never actually gonna wear some rain-boots with your suit, so you might as well get some posh waterproof socks commissioned.” He glances at the kitchen and eyes the bin liner that Harry’s tying up before concentrating back on his food. “Leave that there, I’ll take care of it. I’ll put out the rubbish first thing in the morning. I’ll do it on the way to work."

Whatever else it is that Harry’s doing in the kitchen, Eggsy hears it slow to a stop. “...Pardon?”

“Yeah. Mondays and Thursdays are the bin collection days, innit? Plus, I still have wads of lint I need to clean off the dryer.”

“...I meant about work.”

“Yeah? What about it?”

“...In this weather?”

Eggsy wants to laugh. He shoves some more rice into his mouth instead and keeps his composure. “Mhm.”

“I was under the impression that work has been cancelled for a few days--Would you like me to call Ms. Olivier to--”

“No, Harry. I called her,” Eggsy informs him, “I volunteered.”

“Oh.”

By the time Eggsy finishes up and makes his way to the kitchen to wash up, Harry very conveniently moves to leave the room.

“Goodnight,” Harry murmurs as he passes him by, and Eggsy makes a great effort in keeping his cool, biting his tongue.

Eventually, he replies to an empty room.

“Goodnight.”

 

»»

 

Harry’s gone in the morning, but there’s breakfast ready to be heated up in the kitchen. Suppose that soothes the wounds a little bit.

It doesn’t matter. Today is going to be the day that he doesn’t think about Harry.

Despite going to the bookshop hours before he’s supposed to, Clara’s already there.

“Gary!” She greets, rising up from her place in the corner, over-excited.

“Hey, Clar,” Eggsy huffs, giving into a hug. She likes hugs.

“Thank god you’re here! There’s so much to do.”

“I can see that,” Eggsy points out as he surveys the area. The worst of the water damage is only near the door, barely halfway in the room. The floor’s mostly carpet anyway, it would just need a few fans and blowdryers to take care of it. “Not too bad of a catastrophe, but what about the basement?”

“Miraculously fine. The toilet’s overflowing though, but the water didn’t get too far, thankfully.”

Eggsy nods. “Any damage to the books?”

“Nope!” She grins, and he finds himself returning it.

“Bril. Let’s get to it.”

 

\--

 

“While your initiative to be here is appreciated, you are aware that you’re actually going to have to give more than that, Galahad? If you want to get better, that is.”

Harry sighs.

Morgause tries another line of inquiry. “Did you sleep well?”

“Manageably.”

She raises her eyebrows. “What we talked about yesterday, your condition, it’s also related to other disorders. Anxiety, PTSD, Insomnia--Disassociation reportedly gets worse if you don’t get enough sleep.”

“I know,” Harry tells her. At this point, it’s clear to him that he can’t exactly win. Despite being here and making a genuine attempt at recovery, the odds are against him. He can’t sleep, fearing he’ll dream of Eggsy in a certain context. If he doesn’t get enough sleep, the dissociation worsens.

“Why are you so hesitant to discuss it?” Morgause questions neutrally.

“Hesitant?”

“It’s called avoidance. You’re giving me the least amount of information possible in response to each question. And you’ve just repeated something just to stall.”

“Avoidance, deflection,” He shrugs, listless. “I’m a basket case, it seems.”

“Whatever the issue is, Galahad, be rest assured it will not leave this room.”

Harry regards her for a moment, serious. “Arthur?”

“If you’re asking if he knows you’ve been coming over to psych, yes. It shouldn’t be a surprise. Arthur keeps tabs on you. I’ve always wondered about that.”

“Has he asked?”

“In that manipulative way he does, where he gets people to talk without actually asking a question, yes,” Morgause looks at him with exasperation, and he knows what she means. Mostly every employee in Kingsman is guilty of possessing this skill, but Arthur’s implementation of it is ghastly.

Morgause taps at her notepad with a pen, and it reminds Harry of Eggsy’s nervous ticks. Well, they’re hardly _nervous_ to be exact. It’s simply a subconscious thing that Eggsy does with his hands, a secondary action. Incessant tapping on surfaces, on his knee, legs bouncing with restlessness as he reads, or plays with his mobile. It tends to draw the eye, catching Harry’s attention, and--

“Galahad.”

Harry sits up straighter. “Yes.”

It’s difficult to hold her gaze, but he manages it. Morgause takes a deep breath, and he knows he’s in for some sort of lecture. “Your recovery will require time. You’ve only been here for two, three sessions. Even if we get a full week in, your problems will not disappear. You have to work at it on your own time as well. Whatever you learn here, whatever you learn about yourself, use it, _face it_ , fix it. Denial prolongs the issue.”

There is a long silence, and Harry finds that he doesn’t care if she sees his fingernails digging into the leather armrest as he works on prying the words from his own mouth.

“How do you define love?”

Morgause blinks at him, and he hates that he can’t quite read her behind that professional veneer. He hates even more how he cares about how he’s being judged. Such things have never bothered him before.

“Well, it’s different for everyone. How do you define it?” She tilts her head at him.

Unimpressed, Harry purses his lips. “I know what you’re trying to do.”

“This session is about you, Galahad, not me. I’d be less professional if you need me to be, but I’ll need you to ask.”

“Toe the line,” Harry tells her. “I know I will.”

“Alright,” She seemingly agrees, offhand. “You’ve always worked better with the give-and-take method. Mutually assured destruction.”

“Do you love your husband?”

Morgause scoffs. “Right down to it,” She shakes her head, almost amused, “Do you remember when Chester King offered to break off my engagement on the chance that you were interested in taking my fiance’s place?”

Harry grits his teeth, severely uncomfortable at the memory of Arthur’s distasteful offer. “Yes.”

“So you very well know that it’s more of a political arrangement. In the times that my husband and I are actually in the same country, we’ve learned to live with each other. There’s basic respect, and maybe even companionship, but nothing more than that. We play the roles given to us.”

There’s a brief detached curiosity as to how things would be if he played into Arthur’s repulsive proposition, one that was never his to make. Harry can’t see it. Nevertheless, he can’t help but wonder if that would have saved him all this torment, if he never would have bothered with Eggsy at all.

“It’s none of my business--But why did you play into his politics?” Harry strives to understand.

“Even in this modern era, the curse of high-status families remains the same,” Morgause shrugs. “Marriage for political advantage, connections.”

“If I had said yes, if I had agreed--would that have been better?”

There’s a sardonic eyebrow raised at him. “Remember what I’ve said about deflection? You’re concentrating on another line of problem to ignore the one that matters most.”

Harry huffs, rolling his eyes.

“Galahad,” She sighs, “We would have been a great team. But you would have played into Arthur’s plans. That man--he’s very concentrated on making you his own weapon. He’s proud of you, as if you’re the son he’s always wanted to have. It’s clear in the way he tolerates your unorthodox behaviour, your petulant reactions, your eye-rolling. Marrying into the family would have given him reason to manipulate you to do his bidding more than he already has.”

“You exaggerate. He’s the boss, Morgause, he’s meant to be manipulating the chess pieces as he sees fit.”

“Doesn’t mean I have to like it,” She intones, “It’s better that it turned out this way. From what I’m hearing, it seems you’ve met someone.”

Harry sits up in his seat, tense. “It’s not what it seems.”

“I see, so that _is_ indeed what it’s all about,” She muses. “You’re in denial.”

He glares at her. “No, I’m trying to to classify the _issue_ so it can be dealt with properly.”

Morgause observes him for a moment. “You’ve asked me how I define love. I wouldn’t know. I don’t think I can answer that for you. I wish I could, but it’s different for everyone.“

He gives in to rubbing at his temple, brows furrowing in consternation. “I've been trying to remember what that feels like, to be in love. If I’ve ever been victim to it,” Harry begins, struggling through the unease,“For whatever reason, it seemed to have passed me by. I thought I had been. Once, maybe. It's been a while. I believe the closest I got felt like food poisoning.”

Morgause listens on, attentive, and Harry’s grateful that she isn’t taking notes. It drives him to continue on.

“In books, in films, in plays, it's always so compelling, so complex,” Harry explains in mild distaste. At this stage of his life, he likes to believe that he’s a connoisseur of the arts, that he’s learned to objectively see the beauty in the works and the ramblings of someone so engrossed and enamoured. However, when he’s thought about the prospect of obsessing over someone and their parts, he’s often fallen short. He’s always wondered how mad a person would have to be to wax poetic about someone’s hands alone for ten pages. Or someone’s eyes, for that matter.

Harry pauses, swallowing back the bitter taste in his mouth. “There should be more than one word for love. I've seen love that kills, I've seen love that redeems, I've seen love that believes in the guilty and love that saves the bereaved. What people will do for love. Die for it, even."

In the silence, Morgause finally speaks, uncharacteristically gentle. “What’s the problem here, exactly?”

“The problem,” Harry stalls, trying to figure it out himself, “How do you know if you feel a certain way because--” He falters, distracted by the frantic dizzying rush of blood to his ears. “How do you know what you feel is _genuine_? And not because you’re lonely?”

He regrets it the moment it comes out of his mouth. He knew he’d regret being here. He always regrets feeling vulnerable.

“Professionally speaking,” Morgause hedges after a few seconds, “There are theories, textbook-type analysis. Would that help you?”

He shrugs, non-committal.

Morgause shifts in her seat. “I wouldn’t dare to bore you with a lecture on the Triangular Theory of Love, but regarding what you’ve said about the type of love in books, films and plays, there’s a category for that. It’s quite simply called ‘Romantic Love’. Passion and intimacy. It’s the ridiculous stuff that countless poems and songs are made out of. It’s--” She pauses, going for her tablet, “If you don’t mind, I have references here somewhere.”

Harry waves a hand, urging her to go on.

“Characteristics include a focused attention on a certain individual, rearrangement of priorities, increased energy, mood swings, emotional dependence, obsessive thinking, goal-oriented behaviours--It’s basically the all consuming ‘heart-skips-a-beat’ cliché, the ‘I-can’t-wait-until-they-call’, the ‘I-can’t-wait-to-see-them-again’,” Morgause lists it out, and Harry feels the all-too familiar dread rising to drown him. All these things, he realises in despair, he’s been guilty of them in regards to Eggsy.

“The point is,” Morgause interrupts his internal panic. “It’s the intense type of love that drives one mad, a cocktail of chemicals in the brain, the kind that gets people so far high, only to crash and burn in the end.”

Harry stares, the mix of emotions overwhelming him. “So...it doesn’t last long?”

_There’s hope._

Morgause looks at him over the tablet. “Not often no. Relationships of such types usually disintegrate within a year.”

Harry slowly nods, coming back to himself.

 _There’s a chance_ , He thinks. _There’s a chance._

“And then there is ‘Committed-Companionate Love’, amongst other classifications,” Morgause announces.

Despite knowing nothing about it, Harry doubts that has anything to do with his situation. It sounds like the type old married couples are grouped into.

“It’s the boring kind that never really gets to be shown in media, because, well...” She shrugs. “There’s nothing exciting to see. It lacks the burning passion of the Romantic Love, classified instead by intimacy and commitment. It’s merely the willingness to share the ordinary human life, to find meaning in the simple unromantic tasks: making dinner, cleaning up, living within a budget, feeding the baby in the middle of the night, putting out the rubbish.”

Harry finds himself gradually going rigid.

“What’s the difference?” He questions suddenly, holding back the impending devastation.

Morgause raises an eyebrow. “It’s self-explanatory isn’t it?”

“No--Yes, I mean--Why does it _matter_?” He manages through clenched teeth.

She tilts her head, observing him. “Committed-Companionate love is about being supportive, affectionate, caring, responsive, loyal and respectful to your other half. Thus, it shouldn’t be a surprise that it’s what the healthiest long-term couples are made of.”

It’s difficult to breathe properly, Harry realises. Every intake of air simply isn’t enough.

“You look as though you’ve been diagnosed with an incurable disease, Galahad,” Morgause muses.

_I might as fucking well be._

“What if it’s both?” Harry asks, voice unbearably rough with the panic on the rise.

“Both?” All amusement vanishes from Morgause’s expression. “Then I’m afraid you’ve got a problem.”

 

\--

 

Eggsy frowns. “You think the carpet will be dry by tomorrow?”

“Should be. I just hope it doesn’t smell.” Clara wrinkles her nose, and Eggsy laughs.

“You’re not the one who’s had to mop up the loo in the basement.”

That’s what he’s spent the last few hours doing, wringing out the water into a bucket, carrying it upstairs and throwing it out on the flooded street. Despite that, he’s pretty content.

“I helped a bit,” Clara protests.

“Of course you did, Clar,” Eggsy huffs, “Now, where do we get started with all these new shipments? Should we even bother? Is anyone even gonna come in here in this weather?”

“You never know. Either way, we’re supposed to be open tomorrow.” She starts in on some boxes, cutting them open. “You and Max are eventually going to have to deal with this. Let’s just see what section they’ll get sorted into so we can make some space.”

“Makes sense.” Eggsy nods and works on his own boxes at the other end of the room.

It isn’t long until Clara’s calling him over, giddy with excitement, “Gary, you’re not going to believe this.”

She brandishes a thin paperback with a middle finger on the [cover](http://i.imgur.com/ALKrWYb.jpg).

“Do I want to know?” Eggsy raises an eyebrow.

Clara flips through it. “You haven’t even seen what’s inside! There’s no proper punctuation whatsoever! There isn’t even proper capitalisation!”

Eggsy’s just amazed at how hyped up she is and snorts. “How scandalous, Clara.”

“No, I'm serious! I mean, I’ve always wanted to be a published author, but one of the things that was stopping me was the worrying, you know? Whether or not I’ll get the proper, academic grammar stuff right. But this? _This_ gets published? Oh my god, Gary. I don’t know if I’m excited, appalled, or angry.”

“Maybe it’s special or something,” Eggsy tries, settling on the floor right next to her and picking out the same copy from the box.

Clara relents. “Okay, sure--but I can’t even breathe just reading it in my head! Let me try out loud,” She takes a big breath before starting. “ _Dear Mr. President this morning i called my cousin in Wyoming his boyfriend was making the coffee like many good people do in this beautiful country my cousin told me to tell you it's madness you bring us when i told him i was writing to you today it's been_ \--”

She stops, gasping for air and huffing out a laugh. “How long was that even? That wasn’t long, was it? Preposterous.”

“Go on, try again,” Eggsy encourages.

Clara straightens, determined. “... _i want to say i'm sorry about your parents i'm sure other children of CIA brass need a little craziness to get a little loose do a line of coke get naked and run around campus were you freer back then of course you were i'm an idiot for asking and i remember_ \--” She snorts. “Nope. I can’t. It’s not easy as it seems. You do it, Gary. You’ll see.”

Grinning, Eggsy shrugs. “Challenge accepted.”

Years of athleticism should help him, not to mention the endurance he’s earned when it comes to holding his breath. Eggsy narrows his eyes at the page. “... _i remember cologne when you spoke in Philadelphia and i know it was your cologne you had that i'm-wearing-cologne air about you_ …”

Eggsy finds himself trailing off. He clears his throat, powering through, “... _see i believe there's a big man inside you and yes we're angry right now yes it's about war yes it's about many things the things men with little time for love will impose on others and i wish i could say HEY we're all going to be dead in a hundred years so let's shift the pace let's forget about war_ \--”

“It’s not easy, is it?” Clara raises an eyebrow at him.

“No,” Eggsy murmurs in admittance. He takes a slow, deep breath. “.. _.i wish it was this easy but nothing is ever easy with a man who has little time for love-_ -” Eggsy pauses, staring down at the text. “-- _and a man with little time for love is really just a man who hasn't had love yet you haven't really had love yet there's no way you could have had love real love and not want-_ -”

Eggsy’s voice cracks, and he should be embarrassed, but he reads again.

“... _Mr. President i'm worried your self esteem was damaged many years ago and keeps you from seeing us out here_ \--”

“Gary…”

“... _we're all a little fucked-up with our problems but i know i JUST know there's a big man inside of you big enough to really SEE--_ ”

“Gary?”

Eggsy startles. “Yeah?”

Clara gives him a strange look. “You know what? Nothing. Go on.”

Eggsy bites at his lip. “... _you are stronger than your father's blueprints for your life i've seen your fingers in person you have nice hands Mr. President_ \--” He finds himself gently touching the page. “-- _and they're your hands not your father's hands your life is your own it really is it belongs to you and love is waiting i have a lot of love Mr. President_ \--” It’s difficult to breathe, in more ways than one, but he’s determined to keep on going. “-- _and i just want to press against you sometimes to let you get a little of it HEY_ \--”

He can’t help but huff out a bit of laughter. “-- _i'm so serious about this let's go away together this spring just the two of us it's not a big deal don't even tell anybody i mean you're the president after all but there's a marvelous stretch of woods where i grew up we could smoke a little pot to wind you down get you out of your oval office mode maybe a little wine i'm sure you need a good massage_ \--”

Fuck. _Fuck_.

“-- _maybe we could go to the creek and paint secret mud symbols on our naked bodies like i used to do with my first boyfriend what happens after that will be fine you'll see it will be okay_ \--” Eggsy swallows, holding it together. “-- _the break in the woods has the best flowers to rest beside in the sun and you will awaken with a crown of honeysuckle beautiful man that you are a real leader of real lives who can change the world… with real love waiting for you…_ ”

The resulting silence is all consuming.

So much for having a day where he doesn’t think about Harry fucking Hart.

 

-

 

Harry is aware that he’s staring into nothing.

While there’s only about two folders of paperwork left, an achievement he hasn’t reached in years, he doesn’t touch them.

 _I’m not in love with a child, I’m not in love with a child_ , it repeats, on and on and on. The roiling queasiness hasn’t let up one bit since he’s finished his session.

_It can’t possibly be true._

In his line of work, he has lied, he has manipulated, he has seduced, he has tortured, he has killed. He’s not a good person, but he’s not--

He’s not like _that_.

That is something else entirely.

_I’m not in love with a child._

Eggsy may be a teenager, but that is the _now_. Harry has been meeting with him since he was a _boy_ , and that’s what Harry helplessly sees. That’s why he’s always let his guard down despite all his training. That’s why he’s grown to be attached.

To a boy. A child.

Harry feels _sick_.

There’s no point being here. He can’t get any work done.

Besides, Eggsy’s supposedly at work.

Harry can go home and quietly disappear without having to encounter him. It’s ridiculous how apprehensive he gets at the thought.

On top of all his problems, it’s clear from the past few days that Eggsy seems to be upset with him as well. Harry needs some space, he needs Eggsy to go, but he doesn’t want Eggsy to have any resentment.

Harry doesn’t want to face him.

Harry doesn’t want to face reality.

But most of all, he doesn’t want to be here.

 

\--

 

The thing is, it doesn’t really matter to Eggsy when the lights are on or off when he’s changing his clothes. When he was dressing up for work earlier, it was pretty much routine, and the natural light from outside wasn’t really anything with the clouds being ominously dark from this rain and all.

When he gets back from work, there’s actually a bit of sunlight coming through the clouds and through the window to his room. Not much, but certainly better than this morning.

So when Eggsy takes off his clothes to change back into Harry’s sweats, he fucking sees it on his wrists.

The discolouration, the _bruising_.

And fuck, it’s messed up, how his initial reaction after a gasp is _arousal_.

Recalling the whole situation at the stairs from a few days ago, he immediately looks down, one hand opening the wardrobe where a full length mirror lies behind the door, the other hovering over his hip.

_Holy shit._

Sure enough, it’s on its way there too. And he can tell it’s the nasty kind of bruising that’s gonna have to go through several stages of colours, the kind that’s gonna take forever to fade away.

And again, it’s fucked up. Because like any sane person, Eggsy doesn’t like getting hurt. From schoolyard scuffles to encounters with Dean and his goons, Eggsy doesn’t particularly enjoy that shit. He doesn’t.

But this?

His fingers lightly graze the skin of his hips, and the sharp intake of breath is involuntary. His skin prickles with goosebumps.

 _Fuck_.

He’s almost dizzy with the sensation.

Eggsy’s spent a long time procrastinating on thinking about it, why his dreams before had involved Harry’s hand on his chest, slowly going up to his neck, pressing firm. He’s spent a long time not thinking about why it sends his pulse racing, when he’s figured out it’s not really fear.

It’s Harry’s hands, strong and unyielding. It’s Harry’s hands, the ones he’s witnessed to have beaten several grown men to the ground.

It’s Harry’s hands, careful and gentle as they clean Eggsy’s injuries. It’s Harry’s hands, broad and warm.

Eggsy lets out a hiss, fingers slowly pressing on the crude bruising of his hips.

It’s Harry’s hands he wants on his body.

It’s Harry’s hands, littered with barely noticeable old scars, he _trusts_.

Eggsy swallows.

Would it be crossing the line to wank off wearing Harry’s sweatpants?

Despite the loose fit of the sweatpants, he can see the his cock slightly tenting it up, insistent.

Ah, fuck.

He presses his palm against it, relishing the friction when he moves a little bit.

Yeah, it wouldn’t be wrong. Not if he washes it. Eggsy still has one round of laundry to do anyway.

Frantically loosening the drawstrings, he tries to decide what to think about, and it’s difficult to choose because--

‘ _The possibilities are endless_ ,’ he hears it in Harry’s voice, and Eggsy’s breath hitches, because _yes_.

_Yes, yes, yes._

Eggsy’s about to plunge his hand in when he finds himself suddenly frozen.

There’s a beat before he hears and feels the door downstairs shut.

_For fuck’s sake._

Holding back from screaming in frustration, Eggsy bites down on his lip, _hard_.

He rolls his eyes to the ceiling and walks backwards to sit on his bed. Glancing at the clock on the desk, it’s only five-thirty in the afternoon.

If there is a god, they’re clearly testing Eggsy.

Of all the fucking times that Harry comes home early--Eggsy lays down and rolls over to grunt against a pillow.

Actually, it’s not a pillow.

Eggsy raises his head slightly, and he’s mortified to find the Ikea shark staring at him.

“Oh my god. Galahad, what the fuck?” He groans again, “Were you watching all this time? You should’ve warned me, I would’ve turned your arse around.”

The shame is actually good for something considering that Eggsy’s erection is halfway down. He doesn’t want to deal with anything, so he just turns the shark around and hugs him tight. “We’re taking a nap.”

It’s Yvonne’s incessant phone calls that eventually wake him up. To be fair, he should be thankful, because naps shouldn’t last more than two hours, and it’s currently nine in the evening. Still, he pushes his mobile away.

It vibrates again, and Eggsy huffs against his shark, near whining. “Galahad, help me.”

But of course, Galahad, the fucking sod, does nothing, so Eggsy rolls his eyes and gives him a peck before standing up to put Harry’s sweatshirt on.

He’s already down the stairs when he finally answers the call. “Jansen, this better be good.”

“ _Excuse you. The party’s tomorrow._ ”

“The pre-party, you mean,” He can’t help but be snooty about it. Rich people are wild.

“ _I need you RSVPing. For reasons._ ”

Eggsy scoffs. “Yev, you do know that when you get cute like that, I get really, _really_ suspicious.”

“ _Good_. _You should be_.”

The sight of Harry’s stiff shoulders against the backrest of the sofa stops Eggsy at the entrance to the living room.

“Err, I’mma call you back--Never, probably.”

“ _Hah. Stop playing hard to get--Wait, I need your condom size. Unless you’re bringing your own._ ”

Eggsy almost fucking trips, and he swiftly turns around to whisper into the phone, vehement in his shame with Harry right there, “I’m not playing hard to get--Also, I don’t have condoms, let me live.”

“ _That’s fine, Alicia can share my stash._ ”

His brain short-circuits at the idea of an actual threesome, and he shakes it off. “Oi--”

“ _Bye, bye. See you tomorrow._ ”

Eggsy squints at the wall, putting his mobile in his pocket. It’s dilemma of sorts. Like, Eggsy should say no, but all the cool people are gonna be there and that would help with his social life and everything. Which probably isn’t at its best considering they saw Harry picking him up from the last party.

But, honestly? If he had to choose?

It’s pathetic, he knows, but he’d rather be here with Harry.

“Hey, Haz,” Eggsy greets, making his way to the sofa.

Without meeting his gaze, Harry slightly turns his head towards Eggsy and nods. That’s when Eggsy realises that Harry’s actually nursing a drink, currently a quarter full. But Harry doesn’t seem the type to fill his glass all the way when it comes to alcohol, so despite feeling the urge to cringe, Eggsy tamps it down. “You okay?”

Standing there a bit awkward, he still can’t help but watch closely as Harry swallows.

For fuck’s sake. When will the hormones ever let him live?

“Harry?”

“Dinner’s in the kitchen.”

“Okay,” Eggsy nods slowly. “That’s real nice of you. Have you already eaten?”

Pursing his lips, Harry hums.

It sounds like a yes, but it also sounds like a no. Eggsy narrows his eyes.

“Yes, Eggsy,” The clarification comes.

“M’kay. Do you want me to turn the telly on? Radio?”

“No, thank you.”

Eggsy leaves for the kitchen. As good as the food is, Eggsy isn’t particularly that excited to wolf it down. Harry hasn’t looked him in the eye. Not even once. It feels wrong.

Of course, he could be making a big deal out of nothing. But that doesn’t help the heavy feeling in his gut.

When Eggsy cleans up, he makes sure to load the dishwasher and reminds himself to start it before they go to sleep. He should have time to put it away tomorrow, along with whatever else so Harry doesn't have much to worry about.

The reality is, the flooding has receded a significant amount. It’s just that the private street to Harry’s house has a bit of a downward slope, so the flooding looks worse from here. People wearing boots and raincoats have been managing enough. Eggsy’s seen them from the bookshop window. Public transport is slowly getting back on track as well.

It’s only a matter of time before Harry asks him to leave again.

Eggsy has to make a decision soon.

Harry’s staring into nothing in his place at the sofa. The drink in his hand still looks the same amount.

Eggsy huffs. “You want me to finish that off for you?”

Harry shuts his eyes, and in this dim lighting the shadows make it clear to Eggsy just how hard Harry's clenching his jaw despite how subtle it’s supposed to be. And Eggsy worries. Eggsy worries a lot.

“You’re not even sixteen,” Harry says, quiet.

Eggsy chuckles nervously. “Come on, all the other kids are doing it,” He bites his lip, “I won’t tell if you won’t.”

Harry’s brows furrow, shaking his head slightly, barely moving, and it reminds Eggsy of the incident on the stairs.

“Do you want a hug?” He blurts out in panic.

Even though the embarrassment threatens to choke him, he can at least take comfort in the fact that Harry’s opened his eyes. He’s still not looking at him though, stiffly shaking his head. Eggsy desperately wants to fill the silence, and so he babbles, “Are you sure?”

“I’m sure.”

“Well, _I_ want a hug,” Eggsy goes for a bit of humour. “Can I get a hug?” He sits down on the sofa, a considerable amount of space between them, but Harry visibly _flinches_. And something inside Eggsy shrivels up and dies before Harry even manages to say, “No.”

He doesn’t know what the _fuck_ he’s done wrong. He doesn’t know what to do to make him feel better. Eggsy bites his lip _hard_ , holding on to the pain, but it doesn’t stop him from feeling empty inside.

“Okay.” He taps his fingers on his knees before straightening up in his seat. “...Well, I need to load up the dishwasher. If you’re not gonna finish that, then at least trust me to wash it down the drain.”

Harry stares down at his drink, rotating the glass. Eventually, he hands it over.

Eggsy’s careful not to let their fingers touch.

‘ _Nothing is ever easy with a man who has little time for love,’_ It echoes in Eggsy’s head, unbidden.

If he could feel anything, he’d laugh at how lame and pathetic he’s being. As it is, he just starts the dishwashing cycle and considers using the other entryway instead to go straight to the stairs without having to pass by the living room. But he chooses the long way round.

“I’m leaving tomorrow,” Eggsy announces, hushed and hopefully casual. For the first time, Harry finally turns to look at him, eyes slightly wide.

After a few moments of nothing, Eggsy’s compelled to try for a small smile. “Goodnight.”

 

\--»

 

Harry doesn’t have an appointment today, but he leaves early regardless. There's an outstanding bakery in Soho that opens at zero seven-thirty. He walks there. It takes an hour, and he arrives the moment it opens. Harry buys two boxes of a fresh varied batch to bring home.

He walks his way back.

Eggsy is most likely sleeping in. There's no need to hurry.

Harry drops it off in the kitchen and makes his way upstairs.

Taking off his suit jacket, he locks himself in his office and activates the security protocols. Not much work gets done before it’s zero nine-hundred and he’s pulling out his mobile.

“ _What now?_ ”

“Michelle, did I catch you at a bad time?”

 _“I’ve just come back from my shift at my first job._ ”

“Do you have the time to meet?”

She huffs, clearly over-exaggerating in her apparent annoyance. “ _When?_ ”

“Whenever convenient for you, as always.” He pauses, sensing Eggsy going out of his room and walking down the stairs.

“ _In a few days, maybe. I’ll double-check my schedule. I don’t even know anymore. Same place?_ ”

“No. Somewhere else.”

 

\--

 

Fresh fancy arse pastries wait for Eggsy in the kitchen. And he hates how soft and fuzzy he gets about it.

But the thick oven-baked pancakes could make _anyone_ weep, so he tries not to feel too bad about himself.

Harry’s in the house somewhere, but Eggsy doesn’t want to bother him. Last night, he should have taken a chance to look him over, to memorise him as he was so Eggsy will remember.

Which is dramatic, considering he’ll see him again, but by the time Eggsy will be back from work, Harry will probably be gone for some appointment again. Eggsy won’t get to see him before he leaves for his mum’s place.

Thinking too much about it just isn’t good for anyone, so Eggsy decides to come in early for work again. He chooses to wear one of the newer stuff that Harry’s bought for him, the long-sleeved polo-shirt. With the length of his arms as it is, the sleeves bunch up at least an inch extra at the cuffs, ensuring that the bruises on his wrists are securely covered.

For hours, Eggsy gets lost in the work, minding his own business by the desk, checking over some inventory sheets while Max is in the far corner of the small space, trying to sort some books on the lowest shelves, back to the door.

So when some posh bloke in a suit comes in, Max only takes a glance over his shoulder and does that routine professional nod he does, while Eggsy---

Eggsy stops, going rigid.

‘Cos it's _him_. It's that tall posh weirdo from prom night that Harry was talking to, and even if Eggsy never remembered, he’d still be on fucking guard at the sight of him. ‘cos there's something about him that just--pisses him off. He can't really fucking explain it, but he just feels himself go on the defence.

A certain confidence washes over Eggsy, setting his shoulders and changing his overall posture and demeanour.

And he's right to be. From across the room, the man meets his eyes, expression mild. There's a brief minuscule smile and it fucks Eggsy up because he can't tell if it's from recognition or basic politeness. He tries not to visibly bristle, ‘cos the guy’s wearing a three-piece suit and has an umbrella hooked over his arm, which, first of all---gross. This man’s got nothing on Harry.

Nothing.

The man takes the time to look around the place, eyeing the books on the shelves. And really it just feels like torture. This level of the shop is so fucking small, it shouldn't take long for anyone to tell if there's anything worth buying or if it's better just to leave.

So Eggsy's practically biding time until the man eventually gets to where he's at, the shop desk between them.

“Is there anything I can help you with?” Eggsy asks politely. He _is_ at his job after all, and Max is literally right there, fifteen feet away.

“Well--” There's a twitch at the corner of his mouth, and Eggsy itches for violence. “I suppose there _is_ something.”

“And what is that?” Eggsy keeps his tone professional and oblivious.

“Where are the non-fiction books? Historical or merely general reference?” The man takes a glance around the room, somehow fucking blind to the fact that there are stairs.

“They're in the basement,” Eggsy tells him, gesturing towards the steps.

“Oh, well, if you could accompany me? I'm looking for a gift, you might be of some assistance.” The man’s expression is pleasant and mild and shit and it's so fucking _dodgy_ that Eggsy imagines pushing him down the stairs as they make their way here.

The basement is another room slightly bigger than the one upstairs, but it has a sofa in the middle and the walls are lined with bookshelves up to the ceiling. Eggsy's complained about the lighting before, but they wanted it to be dim for that ‘intimate’ cozy feel, and considering that he's alone with this bloke, he wants none of that shit right now.

“What are you particularly looking for, sir?” Eggsy questions, playing his part.

“Hmm...” The man takes his time in going around the room, scrutinising everything. Typical posh piece of shit, wasting everyone's time and expecting everyone to be at their beck and call. “What do you think?”

Eggsy's brain short-circuits. “What?”

The man watches him, neutral. “What would Harry Hart like?”

Eggsy finds himself slightly straightening even more. He blinks at him. “Pardon?”

Something like curiosity flashes briefly on the man’s features before he goes back to looking around, touching the spines of the books as he passes them by. Eggsy's gonna have to disinfect this whole fucking room.

“Harry Hart, you know him well, yes?”

Dread curdles in his stomach.

The posh git continues on. “...So what does he...enjoy _,_ in your expert opinion?”

“He was only my teacher for two weeks. What gives you the impression that I would know?” Eggsy questions, neutral.

“Oh, how rude of me.” He moves to hold the umbrella in his left hand and offers his right towards Eggsy. “Mycroft Holmes. One could say that he and I work in the same industry.”

“Teaching or Tailoring?”

The man watches him closely. “Tailoring, I'm afraid.”

Eggsy only stares at the offered hand before looking back at him. “Is it his birthday or something, Mr. Holmes?”

The man takes his hand back, tilting his head. “You don't know his birthday?”

It's hopefully subtle, the way Eggsy’s jaw clenches. “No. I don't. I guess I don't know him that well after all.”

“Hmm. That's curious…” He murmurs, scrutinising the books again. “...considering that he talks about you. Praises you.”

Initially, there's an elated pleasure that Eggsy gets at the mere idea of Harry talking about him to other people--and it's fucking _pathetic_ so he swiftly squashes it down because that's a fucking lie. Harry wouldn't.

“I doubt that, Mr. Holmes,” Eggsy manages, tone flat.

This man comes into Eggsy’s workplace, pretending to be all friendly and shit, talking about Harry like they're all fucking mates or something and that pisses him off some more. Eggsy remembers that night, remembers the look on Harry's face and how closed off he was for a moment--and Mycroft Holmes made him that way.

It suddenly strikes Eggsy that maybe the reason why Harry's being weird and pulling away from him again is...this guy.

Eggsy takes a long quiet breath.

The tall bookshelves are full, but Eggsy is so fucking _sure_ he can just pull the one in front of Mycroft Holmes in a quick motion to topple it down, and the man could probably die underneath. With the adrenaline pumping throughout, he could do it. He could.

It can look like an accident.

Of course, there's a CCTV camera in the basement, but Eggsy could just delete that real quick and get Quinlan to permanently take care of it later. Quinlan would help him, wouldn't he?

“You doubt that he would speak of you, or praise you?”

Eggsy's reply is automatic. “He’s just a supply teacher who happens to know my family. Nothing special about me, Mr. Holmes.”

The man hums. “Pity, that, considering my offer.”

“...Your offer?” Eggsy repeats, bland.

“Theoretically, if I were to offer you a...generous sum of money to tell me things about Harry Hart,” Mr. Holmes begins slowly. “What would you do?”

Eggsy blinks at him.

“I would tell you that's _unwise_ , considering I’ve already said I don't know him well.”

“Curious-- _very_ curious," The man murmurs, and he fully turns towards Eggsy, taking a step forward.

And Eggsy--he doesn't flinch, but his jaw clenches, shoulders straightening some more as he holds his ground, slowly tilting his head in question.

“Fascinating," Mr. Holmes crows, and it's creepy as fuck how he means it.

“What is?" Eggsy manages through his gritted teeth.

“You claim to not know him, and you’re... _defensive_.”

“Maybe that has something to do with your lack of personal space,” Eggsy articulates.

Mr. Holmes raises an eyebrow, condescending. “You’ve been defensive since you saw me walk through the door.” He takes another agonisingly slow step forward, and Eggsy refuses to look down or away despite how much he wants to. This bloke may be taller, but that doesn’t mean _shit_. Eggsy’s not retreating, even if this weirdo does keep watching him like some fucking mad scientist. “You claim to not know him, and _yet_ the first thing you did when you saw me was go on the defence--And your first line of defence, your _first instinct_ when you were _threatened_ was to transform into Harry Hart.”

Eggsy freezes.

Mycroft Holmes continues. “The way you hold yourself, the way you walk, the way you speak--word usage, placement, accent, tone--your physical reactions so far...” There’s something like a disbelieving smile tugging at the corner of his mouth as he narrows his eyes with something like awe. “All of it, it’s all Harry Hart.”

It's a late reaction, the way Eggsy _flinches_ before he manages to turn his head to the side to hide the rest of his reactions. Because  _fuck_.

It’s true.

The realisation makes him light-headed, but the embarrassment takes over soon enough. Christ. What the fuck? How long has this been going on? How many people noticed? How obvious was it? Just how far gone is he?

He grits his teeth, turning back to face him. “What d’you want?”

“My offer--”

“ ** _No_**.”

Mycroft Holmes is clearly torn between being taken-aback and offended, but mostly he just seems amused. “My dear boy, you haven't even heard of the numbers. It could be a blank cheque for all you know. It could save your family from destitution.”

Eggsy bares his teeth, holding back on the disgusted tremors. “First of all, _you_ don't get to fucking call me _that_. **_Ever_**. Second, this ain't _Pride and Prejudice_ with your ‘save the fam from destitution’ shite.”

“You’re well-versed with the classics?” The man asks before stopping himself. “Ah, see? Even with yourself back to normal, you even deflect from the real matters at hand the way he does.” He purses his lips.

“Harry fuckin’ Hart doesn't own all the defence mechanisms in the world,” Eggsy hisses, furious. This is fucking ridiculous. The shame is too much. Especially with Harry having been distant these past few days. This is just pathetic. Eggsy is pathetic.

Mycroft Holmes observes him critically. “Had a little domestic, did you?”

Eggsy keeps his mouth shut, jaw clenching. He’s trying to keep his breathing down, but he's worried about that word: domestic. That's a fucking particular choice and it fucks him up.

“My theoretical offer,” Mr. Holmes begins. “What would you do?”

A few seconds pass, and Eggsy's breathing settles. “Theoretically?”

The man nods. “Theoretically.”

Eggsy is calm again.

“Theoretically, I’d leave your body behind that door,” The words quietly leave him without his permission.

Mycroft Holmes blinks. He slightly turns back to glance at the door. “What's in there?”

“The toilet.”

_Where you fucking belong, you piece of shit._

There’s a slight distaste on the man’s expression. “And that's it? No other plans?”

“Not really.”

“That's not quite smart. You’d get caught.” He takes another step closer, but he looks at something over Eggsy's shoulder. “There's a CCTV camera right there.”

“Yeah,” Eggsy accepts, resigned.

The man peers at him, tilting his head. “Do you think that Harry Hart would aid you in your escape for my theoretical murder?”

Eggsy meets his gaze head on. “No.”

He sure as hell doesn't expect him to. ‘Cos that would make him an accomplice then, won't it? Eggsy would go far, far away, never to be seen again. And whatever the hell is going on, Harry wouldn't have this guy _or_ Eggsy bothering him anymore.

Whatever Mycroft Holmes sees on his face makes him nod and take a step back. The man turns towards the bookshelves and spends a few seconds scrutinising it. “I think I pity your mother the most.”

And that--that blindsides Eggsy because _fuck_. He can't just go on killing people, can he? How the fuck did he forget about her? The panic threatens to choke him.

Mr. Holmes finds something that makes him chuckle. “Ah,” He reaches to pull the book out. “Perfect.”

He turns the book over to look at the back before waving it at him, _[Snakes in Suits: When Psychopaths Go to Work](http://i.imgur.com/0lpo9kQ.jpg)_. “Well, have a great day.”

Eggsy grips at his own bruised wrist.

 

\--

 

Harry finds himself blinking awake in his seat, absently rubbing at the skin underneath his watch. Something in the desk is vibrating, and that must have been what woke him up.

His mobile on the desk has no notifications.

He checks the specialised compartment for his Kingsman glasses. There aren’t any notifications on them either.

The dread finds its way in and he’s forced to check the bottom drawer.

Sure enough, there it is, the mobile that Anthea handed him almost two weeks ago, a direct line of contact to Mycroft.

 

**24\. 07. 2007 - M. H.:**

_Black and gold, really?_

 

Pursing his lips, he’s tempted not to reply, but he has no idea what Mycroft is talking about. Lack of information is always a disadvantage in the field.

 

 _‘What?_ ’

 

**24\. 07. 2007 - M. H.:**

_Long sleeve twin-tipped Fred Perry shirt. Black and Gold._

 

**24\. 07. 2007 - M. H.:**

_Could you be any more obvious? Might as well write your name on him._

 

Initially, there’s a steady lethal rage at the idea that his activities are still being monitored. He focuses on that emotion, so he doesn’t have to feel the shame at the implication.

 

‘ _It’s not gold, it’s champagne,_ ’ Harry begins to type.

 

**24\. 07. 2007 - M. H.:**

_Since you’ve already donated AC units, you might consider investing in a few heaters as well. It’s rather chilly in the basement._

 

Staring at the words, Harry goes cold.

He bolts up from his chair.

Through the haze and the frenzied acceleration of his pulse, he manages to pull himself away from the door. Harry returns to his desk, unbuckling his sling, and wakes the laptop from sleep.

Eggsy’s mobile still shows that it’s in the bookshop, but that doesn’t mean anything, it could have been left there. It takes far longer than it should for Harry to hack into the establishment’s CCTV system. He should have had more practice.

The live footage shows nothing. There is no one in the basement.

With a laser focus, he works at it some more, retrieving the recorded footage and going through it in reverse.

At first, Eggsy is alone, and sure enough, he’s wearing the shirt that Harry’s bought for him. Going a few frames back, he isn’t alone anymore. Harry quietly seethes at the image of Mycroft Holmes.

The important thing is, they left separately.

He screens through the footage again and tries to find the starting point. Unfortunately, there isn’t any audio.

It all begins with Eggsy walking down the stairs, seemingly leading Mycroft into the basement and presenting the books on the shelves with an impressive professional persona. Mycroft Holmes walks around, observing, until they end up stationary at one spot and Eggsy has his back to the camera.

The quality isn’t enough for Harry to be able to read what is being said just by looking. But what Harry _is_ actually able to see antagonises him some more.

Mycroft is too close. Far too close to Eggsy.

Gritting his teeth, Harry suffers through it, and he catches Mycroft leaning in even closer to Eggsy whose shoulders are tense, along with the rest of his body language. Defensive. Mycroft says something that makes it worse, something that makes Eggsy _flinch_. And Harry feels himself becoming even more enraged.

Worse than the anger is the frantic concern.

What could Mycroft have said?

The fury trumps his anguish when Mycroft looks over Eggsy’s shoulder and into the camera, as if he knew that Harry would be watching, suffering.

Harry trembles with outrage at the little smirk on Mycroft’s face, and he leaves his office, walks down the stairs, puts his coat on until he realises--he can’t.

There’s no reason to. Not that he can explain.

With utmost regret and agitation, he pulls himself away from the front door and forces himself to go to the kitchen and make tea in an effort to calm himself down.

Harry stares down at his hands, dizzy. He closes his eyes, willing the disassociation away. There’s a vein at his temple and he can feel it _throbbing_.

His heartbeat is loud in his ears, his breaths are harsh and shallow. His clenched fists shake, and he gives in to clutching his injury.

“...Harry?”

Startled, Harry does his best to straighten up, simultaneously relieved and devastated at the sight of him.

_He’s here. He’s safe, he’s safe, he’s safe._

“Eggsy,” He greets, hoping he’s composed as he wants to appear.

“...You’re home.”

“Yes,” Harry breathes, “And so are you.”

There’s a brief pause where Harry realises what he’s said, and he bites down on his tongue.

Eggsy presses his lips together and shrugs. “Yeah, I, uhh, left work early--just gotta get my stuff.”

“Right.”

_Right, of course, he’s leaving today._

Harry can’t look away, helplessly examining him. “Are you alright?”

“Me? Yeah,” Eggsy nods, actually looking mildly confused, “Of course, why wouldn’t I be?” There’s a small close-mouthed smile.

Could Harry be overreacting to everything? Was he reading too much into the CCTV footage? The only other option is that Eggsy's lying to him, and he doesn’t like that prospect.

They only stare at each other and Eggsy’s brows furrow.

There’s an instance where Eggsy takes a step closer, a hand starting to reach out for Harry, but he pulls back just as quick.

Harry grips at the counter behind him.

“What about you?” Eggsy asks him, “Are you okay?”

“Yes.”

There’s a subtle change in Eggsy’s face, something that looks like disappointment with his lips tight and his head halfway up to a nod.

“M'kay---Well, I’m not gonna get it all in one go, of course--my stuff--so I’m gonna have to come back one of these days. But it’ll be quick, don’t worry. You won’t even know I’m there. So, you know, you’ll be fine. Get some space. Have the house to yourself, finally. Hah.”

He leaves the room before Harry can say anything.

 

\--

 

Whatever Harry’s going through, he clearly has enough stress in life, and Eggsy’s not gonna add more to it. So what if there’s a creepy posh bloke hanging around him at his workplace? He can handle it.

He concentrates on his plan of action. Yvonne’s party technically starts at seven thirty in the evening, but Eggsy doesn’t want to look to eager so maybe he’ll be there at nine or something. As for what he’ll be wearing--

Eggsy looks down at himself. This outfit should be enough. Who gives a shit?

But then he’ll go home to his mum before and after the party. She might recognise the brand and ask questions. He could change, but it all takes more effort than it should.

Eggsy huffs and opens his wardrobe.

To be fair, one of the reasons why he didn’t pack before is because he doesn’t know what to pack.

Why the fuck does he need to pack anyway? It’s not like it’s permanent. He’ll be back in a week or something. Originally, it was going to be just a few days, but Harry might need more than that. Which is fine. Again, He’ll be back.

Won’t he?

So he doesn’t need to take much. But if he packs a lot, the room would look really empty, and if Harry walks in his room, maybe he’ll be sad and miss him.

Wait.

Why _does_ he need to pack?

He technically doesn’t live here. All he should take are the stuff he actually owns.

As he looks around his room, he realises the lines on that topic are a _bit_ blurred.

The Ikea shark catches his eye, and Eggsy finds himself walking to the bed just to talk at him.

“I really want to take you home, Galahad,” Eggsy frowns at him. “I do. But...I’m taking the public transport and--” Eggsy finds himself averting his gaze, embarrassed. “Next time, I promise. I’m taking you home.” He pets him in assurance, and it’s really tempting to hug him and take a nap because that is some good shit, but he has priorities. “Honest. Like Harry said, my word’s everything, yeah? I give you my word.”

It’s much more difficult than it’s supposed to be when Eggsy actually starts packing. His first mistake was using a bag that Harry bought for him, and that would have immediately given up the game to his mum, so he starts over again. And he didn’t end up doing his last round of laundry, so _of course_ , he takes Harry’s sweats and puts it in his rucksack along with the other clothes. He can wash it at his mum’s place.

When the rucksack gets so full that it’s difficult to close, that’s when Eggsy realises just how much he’s stayed over here. Other than the sweats, most of the clothes are actually his, and there’s more that won’t fit in the bag.

Scratching his head in frustration, he glances at his Ikea shark. “See what I mean?”

Eggsy spends two hours packing. Two fucking hours.

To be fair, he gets distracted with going over and touching everything. Particularly the weird Russian egg-thing that Harry got for him. Eggsy somehow decides to record the music box [sound](https://drive.google.com/file/d/0B6aF7_1BmgYpU1VzR3J6LXdqLUU/view) to both his mobiles--just 'cos. And on a whim he sets it as Harry's ringtone 'cos it's sort of an inside joke with himself at how ridiculously _soft_ he's gotten these past few days. And by soft, he means gay. Like super, super gay. Because while he's accepted that he has a thing for Harry, he probably shouldn't be this gay about it.

So maybe this break will be good for Eggsy too.

Plus, with things as they are, it's not like Harry will call him. He doesn't even text Eggsy anymore.

 _Anyway_ , Eggsy’s definitely overthinking the whole packing thing. He’s coming back for the rest anyway, coming back for Galahad. So he finishes up and wears Harry’s jacket from the IWM. It’s understated, so his mum shouldn’t ask too many questions. He can easily pass it off as a charity shop find. It’s also pragmatic, considering it’s waterproof and there’s enough pockets to hold his essentials. Hell, he can probably sneak in a paperback or two. But he won’t, because again, he’ll be back.

Still, he makes his bed and gives in to petting Galahad. “Be good, yeah?”

Eggsy gives him a peck on the tip of his nose and makes his way for the door. He allows himself one last look of his room before turning the light off and leaving.

Out in the hallway, he sees the door to Harry’s office and bedroom. He squints for a moment, but Harry isn’t there, so he just walks down the stairs.

He briefly says goodbye to Mr. Pickle in the loo, and that's when his mobile vibrates. Eggsy groans, leaving for the hallway.

“Yev, I swear--”

“ _Just checking if you’re alive._ ”

“Yeah, so I can be your ritual sacrifice at the pre-party? What time is that at again?” Eggsy stalls, using the side doorway to the dining room and the kitchen, ready to hunt for snacks.

“ _Oh my god--it’s in like, an hour._ ”

Two juice-boxes along with a water bottle fit into one of his jacket pockets. Eggsy’s life is made.

“Damn,” He teases, “Really?“

“ _Excuse you--_ ”

The box of jaffa cakes doesn’t fit anywhere, so he has to manually move the actual things into a sandwich bag. Now, they fit into the other pocket.

“Honestly? I don’t know. We’ll see.”

“ _What do you mean ‘we’ll see’?_ ”

Eggsy walks out of the kitchen and out of the dining room to find Harry behind the bar, in that crisp white shirt of his that shows off his damn pecs if you focus for too long, but he’s emptily staring at the drink in front of him, so all the sexy thoughts vanish in a matter of seconds.

“...Gotta go, Yev.”

It’s only six-thirty in the evening and it shouldn’t be this dark already because it’s summer, but the clouds have always been ominously gloomy these past few days, so why the fuck is there _still_ only one light on? Does Harry like to brood in the dark, is that it?

Cautiously making his way closer, Eggsy tries to get Harry to meet his eyes.

For fuck’s sake, Eggsy hasn’t even left and he misses him already. What the fuck is this gay arse shit?

He huffs, sitting on the bar stool. Even without looking, Harry immediately moves the glass further away.

“Haz,” Eggsy complains, near-whining, and Harry finally meets his gaze.

Eggsy forgets how to fucking breathe--and it’s not because he’s weak as fuck, there’s something there. He can’t read it, but it’s something.

“You’re leaving,” says Harry, toneless.

“...Yeah.”

_I don’t want to, but I have to. You need me to._

“Do you have an umbrella?”

“Nope. I have this jacket though. Thanks,” Eggsy tells him, keeping his composure, keeping his breathing steady. “I love it.”

 ~~~~Harry opens his mouth, but it takes a while for him to speak. “...Be safe.”

Eggsy finally pulls his gaze away, huffing. “Of course, Haz.”

He doesn’t know why it all feels so serious. Eggsy nervously swivels in his bar stool, back and forth, back and forth.

“You’ll be taking a cab, yes?” Harry asks.

“Yep,” Eggsy lies easily.

“Do you have condoms?”

Eggsy almost falls off the fucking chair. He stares at Harry, eyes wide.

But Harry’s busy drinking his alcohol, swallowing the presumably bitter taste of it on his tongue, and then--“I couldn’t help but overhear your conversations with Miss Jansen these past few days.”

An embarrassing noise leaves Eggsy’s throat and he leans down against the bar surface, covering his head with his arms. “It’s not what it sounds like it’s--”

“Eggsy.”

Something in Harry’s voice makes him peek up at him.

“It’s okay,” says Harry.

And that’s weird. Because Harry rarely uses ‘okay’, he uses ‘alright’, because he’s a posh fuck but Eggsy likes him anyway.

“Well, of course it’s _okay_. Sex is okay. But,” Eggsy struggles. “It’s really not what you think--”

Harry pulls out a paper bag from behind the bar, and for a moment Eggsy thinks he’s gonna be handed alcohol, but Harry clears his throat.

“I bought this for you.”

Eggsy narrows his eyes, ignoring the impending prospect of humiliation. “Do I even wanna know?”

Harry pushes the bag closer, and Eggsy just has to look inside because he’s a fucking idiot and--

There’s gotta be at least three boxes of condoms in there, and something that looks like a squeezable jam bottle, which he ultimately realises is fucking _[lube](http://i.imgur.com/nmLzRmE.jpg) _ and--

Boy Butter. It's called _Boy Butter_ , and Eggsy wants to die.

Eggsy hides behind his arms again, wishing he’d brought Galahad with him instead. It’s always easier to hide behind Galahad.

“No,” He petulantly mutters.

“Eggsy, you have to be safe--”

“Why does everyone think I’m having so much sex?” He complains in frustration.

“There’s no need to lie. Not to me.”

Eggsy glares at him. “It’s in a paper bag. It’s gonna rain, it’s gonna rip open, and it’s all gonna fall down the street and everyone’s gonna fucking _see--_ ”

“I’ll put it in your rucksack--”

“--There’s no space,” Eggsy counters immediately, leaning away as if Harry would take his bag from him and see that Eggsy’s made to run off with his monogrammed sweats because he’s a fucking loser.

Harry sighs, and Eggsy can see his jaw clenching. All he wants to do is touch him, touch his face and make him relax, but it’s probably gonna have the opposite effect so Eggsy doesn’t do shit.

“Take the ones in your size and take a handful into your pocket. Rest assured, I will not look. No need to be self-conscious.”

First of all, that’s stupid, because he’ll see which box has less, so Harry will know. Second, that’s really sweet, and Eggsy really hates how much he’s tits over heels for this bastard.

“Harry, I have food and juice boxes in my pockets. Will I trade it for lube and condoms? No.”

“Eggsy, I know you’re going to her tonight. And you cannot simply expect other people to have the things you need. You have to be prepared--”

“Oh my god,” Eggsy explodes in sheer frustration and humiliation, “Have you ever considered the possibility that I’m a virgin?”

In the resulting silence, Eggsy considers drowning himself in the storm. But Harry’s doing that blinking thing he does, frowning.

Harry squints at the distance, and Eggsy rolls his eyes. “Maybe I haven’t even kissed anyone, you never know,” He shrugs, overly nonchalant despite the pounding of his heart.

Harry shifts his focus to Eggsy.

And despite that intensity, Eggsy likes to think he holds his own. “Is it a bluff? Maybe it’s a double-bluff.”

Harry narrows his eyes further, and Eggsy waggles his eyebrows. “You know what? You should give me tips. Experienced gentleman that you are,” Eggsy props his chin over his hand.

He’s playing with fire here and he could fucking burn, but he’s leaving and Harry’s been drinking and--wait, is this considered taking advantage?

“What tips could you possibly need?” Harry mutters, refilling his drink despite it only being halfway empty. He abruptly stops, frowning at his glass like he’s realised he shouldn’t be drinking.

Which isn’t illegal. Even if Eggsy doesn’t like the idea of him drinking, Harry’s a grown man in his own home, he can drink if he wants to. Eggsy couldn’t possibly stop him.

“Hmm,” Eggsy stalls, watching Harry’s fingers tapping against the glass. To him, Harry’s always been a man of composure and control, so that could be a tell. He observes Harry’s face, but Harry isn’t looking at him. Despite Harry’s expression giving nothing away, Eggsy gets the sense that he wants to escape in a panic.

Well, suppose it is awkward having to talk sex to a teenager.

In a fit of unfortunate compassion, Eggsy decides to take it easy. “In all your experience,” He begins. “What’s the best type of kiss?”

He’s genuinely curious, and in a way he’s setting himself up for death because this will probably lead to him being vividly reminded of the fact that Harry’s had many lovers. There would be numerous instances, countless examples and stories to tell--

“A kiss is a kiss,” Harry says shortly.

Now it’s Eggsy’s turn to narrow his eyes. “Very articulate, Haz. With all the words you’ve used, I’m pretty sure you’ve read the whole dictionary. What’s the point if you can’t explain something so simple?”

“If it’s so simple, why are you asking?”

Eggsy pouts.

Harry rolls his eyes to the ceiling like he’d rather be anywhere else in the world. “Eggsy, simply pay attention to how your partner reacts. Go from there. It should…” His face slightly scrunches with something like displeasure, and Eggsy is all for this cute shit. “...happen naturally.”

“Mmm,” Eggsy nods like he understands what the fuck that means. “But how do you start?”

“What?”

“You know,” Eggsy shifts in his seat, leaning towards him in genuine interest. “How do you initiate it?”

Harry purses his lips, glaring at something on the far wall. “As long as you don’t attack tongue-first, I’m certain you’ll be...passable.”

Eggsy gawks, offended. “Passable? Oi, guv--”

“You’ll be fine,” Harry grunts, clutching at his glass.

“But what if they like tongue? I heard people like tongue. How do you know? Do you like--”

“Eggsy,” Harry barks, and they both fall silent.

Suddenly, it strikes Eggsy why they’re even having this conversation. Reality sets in, heavy; He’s leaving, and he won’t see Harry for days.

Eggsy lets out a quiet breath. “Okay, m’sorry.”

“No, it’s--”

“--But I need to know things like…” He trails off.

“Just--be courteous.”

Eggsy raises an eyebrow. “Courteous?”

“Be sure they want it, be…” Harry’s brows furrow. “Just...be you. You’ll be fine,” Harry murmurs, staring down at his glass. “It’s clear that she wants you--Still, give her a chance to say otherwise, a chance to pull away. Permission is important.”

Absently pushing the paper bag to the side, Eggsy sets his elbows further on the bar counter, leaning in.

“So… like…?”

Finally noticing Eggsy too close in his space, Harry turns his head to look at him in question, which drives them even closer, only inches away from each other.

Eggsy tries not to fucking die.

They’re stuck at an impasse, and Harry’s only staring at him. He’s not moving away--he’s not punching away either. It’s like he’s stuck looking into Eggsy’s eyes and that’s good. That’s good, isn’t it? Because he’s looking at Harry’s lips, and--Eggsy swallows.

“Can I have a kiss?”

The words leave him, senseless, his breathing quiet and shallow.

It feels like a lifetime before Harry's mouth even parts to speak, distant and hushed in his mechanical correction.

“... _May_ ...I have a kiss.” 

“Yes,” Eggsy exhales against him, angling in, dazed. “Yes, you may.”

And then Eggsy’s leaning in closer and closer until his eyelids fall shut and their mouths fucking _touch_.

It’s light, barely there. It’s dry, it’s simple, it’s chaste.

But Eggsy fucking _swears_ his heart stops beating--before it returns, _rapid_ and _overwhelming_ , setting him on slow fucking _fire_. It starts from their point of contact--it starts in his lips, and the prickling sense of heady intoxication moves to his cheeks, to his scalp, to his neck and down to the rest of his fucking body.

Breathing air doesn’t even seem important.

It feels like forever but it isn’t even _enough_ , yet Eggsy finds himself pulling away a fraction, opening his eyes to stare down at Harry’s mouth. Harry hasn’t moved a bit, and Eggsy refuses to panic at the shit he’s just pulled, there’s plenty of time for that later. He just tries to keep his composure.

“...Like that?” He breathes softly against Harry’s mouth.

Harry pulls further away by just a bit, a tiny bit, but it seems like a few thousand miles and Eggsy wants to drag him back in a fit of frenzied dismay, but Harry’s mouth is moving, opening, and--

“...It’s rather dry,” says Harry, low, barely audible, but it sends a jolt up Eggsy’s spine regardless. And he doesn’t know what to fucking say to that because he’s still fucking high from that _dry_ chaste kiss.

In the corner of his eye, he notices Harry’s fingers around the glass, moving slightly.

And then Harry’s raising his hand, slowly reaching with his fingers, hovering over Eggsy’s mouth barely even half a fucking inch away. Eggsy can practically _feel_ it, so it’s just natural to lean in, to close the distance. Harry’s fingers are cold and wet from the condensation of the glass, and it isn’t long until Harry lazily swipes his index finger across Eggsy’s lower lip.

The trail of it _burns_ and Eggsy’s alight once more.

“There,” murmurs Harry.

“...Yeah?” Eggsy manages, fighting through the haze of his incomprehensible thoughts and failing. “You like it wet, Harry?”

Harry tilts his head, brows furrowing. In a split-second, Harry abruptly recoils, minimal in movement, but it’s there, and then he’s rubbing at his temple with his eyes shut, like he’s about to die from a migraine. “I---don’t know.”

“What?” Despite the heavy concern, Eggsy can’t help clearing his throat and bursting out in question, “What do you mean you don’t know? Don’t you know what you like?”

Surely he’s figured it out after all these years?

Harry’s shaking his head, rubbing at his temple even harder, repeating it senselessly, “I don’t know.”

Eggsy raises his hands in overwhelming worry, “Okay, alright--That’s fine. Just. Relax. It’s okay.”

He wants to touch him, he wants to make him all better. He wants to touch his large hands, to hold them close and kiss them again and again until Harry finds it so ridiculously appalling that he laughs.

There’s only somber silence, and Eggsy finds himself straightening up.

“Whatever you’re dealing with,” Eggsy begins, hushed and serious. “I want you to look at that and remember.”

Uncertain, Harry finally looks up. “What?”

“That,” Eggsy nods his head to the left, towards the living room. Seeing that Harry’s still confused, Eggsy points.

“The telly?” Harry asks.

“No-- _Bez_.” Eggsy clarifies. “We made that. We made her. We got through that Ikea shit. If we made it through that, we can make it through anything.”

Harry just keeps at blinking at him, and Eggsy huffs.

“Okay. I’m leaving now.”

It’s all more wistful than it should be, but Eggsy will be back, so he should stop being dramatic. Harry only stares at him as he gets off the bar stool and starts walking backwards.

“Take care, yeah? Get better.”

Harry catches sight of the paper bag left on the bar. “Wait, your--”

“Oh my god.” Eggsy rolls his eyes and comes back, opening his pocket. He takes out one juice-box, handing it to Harry who’s staring down at it confused enough that he gets distracted, giving Eggsy the opportunity steal a large gulp of his really rank alcohol. He coughs, wondering how he’s still alive after that fucking burn.

“Eggsy--”

“Stop drinking. Have a juice instead.” He fishes through the paper bag, only taking out the lube, pretending to not be embarrassed. “Also, wear your damn sling. And don’t forget to adjust that big arse clock. You probably never noticed, but I’ve been doing that these past weeks. It always goes off a bit extra if you leave it alone for too long, and then it just adds up,” He reaches quick and runs a hand through Harry’s hair, and turns away to leave. “Bye.”

The cold chill of London is no match for the heat radiating off Eggsy in waves.

Pulling his hood up to counter the light rain, he decides to be content, if not happy. It might not seem like it to Harry, or to anyone, really, if they saw what happened--but to Eggsy, it counts as a kiss.

He’s counting it.

It counts as his first.

Harry Hart is his first kiss.

Nothing that will ever happen can change that.

 

-

 

Harry’s fingers hover over his own mouth, staring blankly at his empty home.

It doesn’t count.

It was barely a kiss.

Merely a practice, an exercise in discipline for Eggsy's ultimate ventures.

Just a light press of their mouths. Nothing more.

It couldn’t possibly count.

But why do his lips still tingle with something like electricity?

 _“Don’t you know what you like?”_  The question echoes at him.

What bothers him is the realisation that he doesn’t. Harry doesn’t know what he likes. All he’s ever done was whatever it took to complete the job, to accomplish the goal. He did whatever they wanted. Pleasure is pleasure---Pleasure _was_ pleasure. Whatever he wanted never mattered. Because the outcome was always the same, a momentary blissful orgasm that always made him feel empty after.

Touching his mouth, Harry finds that, in the contrast of his cold fingers, his lips are burning hot.

And he fears--he fears it so terribly that he’s finally discovered the answer to the question.

 

\--

 

Something like nostalgia hits the moment he gets through the door, and it's not the eighties music blasting on in the background.

It's odd, like--really odd, because his house smells weird.

Not bad weird, no. Just...different.

And he suddenly remembers a conversation he's overheard before, an argument about how every house has a different smell, but somehow the ones who live in it just don't happen to notice. Eggsy didn't really think much of the whole thing because he didn't have much basis to believe in it.

He wonders how many days away it'll take for him to sniff out the scent of Harry's house, to think of it as odd once he goes back.

He quietly leaves his bag in his room, barely even opening the door all the way before stepping out and making his way to the kitchen.

Sure enough, his mum’s dancing to the music as she chops some vegetables and other multitasking shit that just leaves Eggsy amazed sometimes.

“What’s with the Whitney Houston binge?” Eggsy raises an eyebrow.

His mum startles. “Oi!”

Eggsy grins, and then his mum’s going for a hug and he can’t even put up a fight because hell, it’s been a while since he’s actually seen her. He’s missed his mum, and he hugs her back tight.

Until he realises she’s sniffing at him and he groans in protest. “Mum!”

“I’m trying to figure out what your girl smells like!” She explains. “You don’t smell that much different. Maybe I’m getting the flu.” She pinches her nose, wiggling it as if that’s an actual flu-testing method.

Eggsy rolls his eyes, charmed at her antics. “Or _maybe_ I take showers, mum.”

“Hah! So you ain’t denyin’ it no more!”

Sputtering, Eggsy ultimately gives up. He sniffs. “Well, fine. How can I change your mind if it’s already made up?”

His mum snorts. “Get me the salt.”

It’s been a long time since he’s even remembered the two of them being at home together with nothing hanging in the air between them, much less a home cooked meal. Eggsy smiles softly, helping her out. He habitually starts setting the table, and he’s barely finished when he catches his mum glancing at him weird.

Ultimately, he realises _how_ he’s set the table and he immediately tries to make the whole arrangement shabby and basic looking.

His mobile vibrates and he peers over at the clock. It’s eight twenty-three. Woops.

 

**24\. 07. 2007 - Yve:**

_Not playing hard to get, my arse._

 

Eggsy scoffs, and his mum gives him a knowing look from where she’s being super extra at lip-syncing to ‘I Wanna Dance With Somebody’. He sticks his tongue out in reply.

 

‘ _Look I did my best, but tru story: You were right--daddy fucked me up_ ’

 

Despite his preparation, he can’t entirely keep the embarrassment away.

 

‘ _So now i’m spending qual time with mum._ ’

 

‘ _Tried to escape. Couldn’t. Have fun with ur PREparty._ ’

 

As they wait for the food to be finished, Eggsy takes the chance to outshine his mum at the dancing and lip-syncing. He ends up looking like an idiot, but he makes her laugh. It’s been so long since he’s seen her so happy.

“Maybe I should ship you off to that Yvonne girl,” His mum says during dinner. “She’s clearly done wonders on you.”

An awkward laugh escapes Eggsy. “Mum, stop it. You love me and my shining personality. I’m your favourite child.”

“You’re my only child, you berk.” Despite the words, she smiles softly, but she insists on asking questions. “You seein’ her tomorrow?”

“Psh. Nah.”

It would be a bit pathetic to go back to Harry’s place barely a day after. But then again, he does have to get the rest of his stuff. He has to get Galahad. Actually, he has to sneak him in so his mum won’t be looking at him weird with his forty inch long plush shark. He has to time that shit proper.

His mobile vibrates again, and his mum raises an eyebrow. He rolls his eyes.

 

**24\. 07. 2007 - Yve:**

_Ooo. I knew daddy was a hardarse. Goodluck!_

 

**24\. 07. 2007 - Yve:**

_The rl party is next week. No excuses. Collect ur stuff._

 

Shaking his head, Eggsy puts his mobile away and concentrates on eating.

“You not gonna reply to your girl?”

“Mum--”

“Did you have a bit of a domestic?” She watches him, keen.

Eggsy almost chokes on a large chunk of potato. It’s not a domestic--whatever that posh weirdo at the bookshop thinks. Harry just needs space, and he’s clearly going through some things he can’t tell Eggsy. So--“No.”

“You really ain’t gonna see her tomorrow?”

“No, mum. People get sick of each other if they spend _too_ much time together.”

She raises a finger at him. “Smart boy.”

He narrows his eyes. “What would you know?”

“Psh. I’m just saying. Seen lots of people crash and burn just ‘cos they never spent a time apart. They learned it the hard way.”

“Hmm. Why you askin’ about tomorrow?”

“I have my day off. I know London’s still a bit soggy, but I was thinking we could spend it together.”

“Yeah?” Eggsy perks up. “That’d be great, mum!”

“Yeah, well, probably in the late afternoon though, after I’m done with this other thing.”

“Other thing?”

“Yeah. Some stuff with my friends.”

He almost tells her that she doesn’t exactly have friends. Not really close ones anyway. Not anymore, not after Dean. Which is fucked up, so it’s good he didn’t end up saying it. “Yeah. That’s good, mum. Spend time with your friends. Enjoy yourselves,” He tells her, serious and sincere. He wants her to be happy. She deserves all the good things.

His mum smiles at him, and then she ruffles his hair in an unforeseen attack.

“Oi!”

 

»»

 

Eggsy loses himself around Central London. He’s been spending the last few hours just reacquainting himself with it. It’s good to be out here, stretching his legs, checking things out, seeing the world. There’s mostly only puddles in the busiest places. It seems things are looking for the better after all.

Apparently, even the last few days of rain hasn’t stopped people from setting up their stalls. Hasn’t stopped the tourists either. Eggsy should be used to them by now, but damn they’re annoying. For a very brief moment he has a scenario in his head where he’s stealing from them again, but he only shakes his head.

He’s better than that. Plus, he doesn’t need to.

He has a job now, and Harry would be disappointed.

And his mum.

His mum’s currently meeting up with her friends or whatever, so he’s just roaming around until she texts him that she’s done.

The air is cool and crisp, but he stays warm in Harry’s jacket. Eggsy wonders where Harry is, what he’s doing, but he distracts himself with wondering how Galahad’s doing instead. He tries to picture his sad empty room, bed made, Galahad all cold and alone.

Tsk. Eggsy should have put him under the duvet.

It was oddly difficult to sleep last night. He’s been too used to hugging Galahad to sleep. It surprises him just how off he felt to be sleeping in his own room at his mum’s place. It took a really long time of tossing and turning and fluffing up pillows.

Eggsy wonders if it’ll be easier tonight.

Anyway, another perk of having stayed in Harry’s house is that he didn't really go anywhere--because he didn't want to go anywhere--He just stayed at home, and he didn't spend much of his Oyster card. So now he doesn’t have to be too guilty about having the luxury in taking the tube so often in so little time and hitting the daily cap fee.

Still, it’s London, walking is a thing, and Eggsy’s walked so much he’s practically following the scent of food.

He ends up in Whitecross Street Market, where the food stalls are endless. He’s passed by here a handful of times before when he was hanging out with his mates, and despite how cheap the food was, he didn't buy any, choosing to save his money instead. He didn't like staying for long, always preferring to walk fast rather than ultimately give in to the hunger.

But now, he has a job. And it’s not like he buys too much of anything. The only time he remembers using his salary money was when he bought Harry the birthday stuff, the bowtie and the cards. The rest he gave to his mum to help with the bills.

And walking lazily along the crowded street, he can see that the food is pretty much global, pretty close to authentic going from the people cooking and selling them. There’s Indian, Brazilian, Greek, Thai, Italian--

Eggsy stops.

Huh. That could be another reason why Harry’s been acting off. He’s been on medical leave. If he knows anything about Harry, it’s that he’s very dedicated to his job, takes pride in it. Medical leave could’ve made him...worksick. Which is weird when he considers it, but maybe Eggsy’s been biased all along. Harry's job is okay on principle, but Eggsy hates the way it almost consumes him. And to be honest, he doesn’t like anything that takes Harry’s time away from home.

But Harry’s said it himself, his life has always revolved around his work. Maybe he doesn't know anything else.

Harry Hart is a posh international tailor.

Keyword being international, so maybe he misses the authentic food that comes along with it too.

 

\--

 

“About Eggsy's future,” Harry begins.

Michelle raises her eyebrows, spoon halfway up to her mouth.

Harry falters, unable to speak any further.

“Look, I get that you’re still feeling guilty about Lee, but--” Michelle huffs. “You don’t have to do this. S’weird.”

Harry doesn't visibly squirm. “This is not about that, it’s--"

“No? You finally take me out of that posh café and into a moderately fancy bistro for a late lunch, and now you want to talk about my son’s future?”

Harry says nothing, his pulse picking up. It’s preposterous. Absolutely preposterous. He’s been in more dangerous situations with even more lethal people. He should be able to keep his composure the way he had then. Also, Côte Brasserie hardly counts as fancy.

“How many years has it been? Not that I don't appreciate all that you’ve done, but isn't it about time you got over it? Just a bit excessive, innit?”

“Why?" Harry murmurs, not looking at her. “Are you over it?”

“Not entirely, but I'm working on it. I don't think you can ever get over that one person who just--made your life...brighter, no matter what shit of a situation you’ve gotten yourself into, no matter if you’ve lost your job or you can’t pay the rent in time. Lee and I always--We were in it together. For better and for worse," Her tone has gotten thick and Harry wants to break through the full glass window right next to their table and make a run for it.

Michelle sighs, “Point is, Harry Hart, I might never get over the loss, but I'm getting over you being the cause of it. It wasn't fair to ever have blamed you, Eggsy was right.”

Harry swiftly turns to stare at her. “What?”

“My son, he said something quite a while ago, something real smart, real mature. He had asked who you were, back in March or April, and I told him you got his father killed.”

A sharp guilt pierces Harry at the words, and it’s difficult to breathe as Michelle goes on.

“...Eggsy, he...he got really weird about it. Got confused, refused to believe it at first, but then he did, and he got angry. He never talked about it but I could tell. Then a few days later he came up to me and said we shouldn’t-- _we shouldn't be angry_ ," Michelle awkwardly chuckles at the memory, “And then _I_ got angry---What did he know? He was just a kid. I lost the love of my life and you took him from me. But then he said that it wasn't your fault.”

Harry’s heart stops for a moment.

“...Kid lost his father and he was defending you, I was about ready to go mad and jump off the Thames or something. But then he said to me ‘Da was a marine. He knew the risks when he signed up. He took a risk, he lost. It happens in the field, mum’," Michelle shakes her head. “He said it exactly like that, like he knew what being in the 'field' meant. I remember, ‘cos I slapped him right after.”

Harry turns rigid.

“Don’t get me wrong, I didn't mean to, and I felt like absolute shite," She tells him, earnest, and Harry tries to relax, “I love my son. But it was so unbelievable to me, and it just happened. He only continued on and said that it wasn't your fault, that you owe us nothing.”

It’s pathetic, how Harry feels himself missing him when it’s only been been day.

“Took a while," Michelle tells him. “But I’m getting it. I think you should too.”

Harry shakes his head lightly and she protests immediately.

“You’ve done more than enough. From what I’ve seen, from what I know--you’re not a bad person, Harry Hart.”

_From what you’ve seen, From what you know._

Revulsion and guilt washes over him ten-fold.

_You never knew I met your son again when he was eleven, you never knew I kept meeting with your son when he was thirteen._

_If you knew, if you saw us then, when we met in a secluded area in the park like a terrible cliché of a horror story, you wouldn't say that._

_You’d scream, you’d punch, you’d kick, you’d fight and you’d bathe me in petrol to set me on fire._

_You’d take him far, far away where I can't possibly reach._

_If you knew that he’s been staying with me for weeks, in my home, you’d_ \--

“Ah, tsk," Michelle hands him a napkin and he almost flinches. “No need to be dramatic, I couldn’t handle it.”

“What?” He shakes it off, attempting to re-establish himself and his surroundings.

“I see them watery eyes, Harry Hart.”

He blinks at her before ultimately clearing his throat.

“Well, with that out of the way--” Harry clears his throat again. “Eggsy’s future. What are your thoughts?”

Michelle’s brows furrow, but she’s largely amused. “You really gonna insist on this, aren’t you?”

“I know it’s not my place, that it’s none of my business--”

“You’re right, it ain’t." Michelle raises an eyebrow.

 _You’re wrong_ , a part of Harry argues and he tamps it down.

“I’m merely curious. He seems very clever. Hard-working as well.”

Michelle is near preening with her pride. “Of course he is."

“Right, so Oxbridge would--”

The bewildered snort stops him. Harry stares at her in question and confusion.

“Oxbridge?" She repeats, incredulous, before she laughs, and Harry has a sinking sensation at the pit of his stomach.

Her laughter trails off and she frowns. “You’re serious?”

Harry keeps his calm and doesn't snap at her. “Yes.”

Her expression borders on discomfort. “Look, Eggsy's brilliant, but--I mean, I wish, but come on.”

He stares at her, uncertain in the reality of the world he lives in. “What makes you think he can’t?”

“Oxbridge is for posh people," She starts.

“No, that is a stereotype. There are people from all walks of life, from different parts of the world--”

“Rich people from different parts of the world, entitled, with connections--”

“There are such things as scholarships.”

“And just how cutthroat is the competition for that?" She asks him pointedly.

“Eggsy is brilliant--you’ve said it yourself," He adds hastily. “He’s hard-working, he’s capable. Surely you know this?”

“Of course, I do," She narrows her eyes at him. “What’s your point?”

“He merely needs a reminder, someone to check in on him, to tell him he’s doing well," Harry looks at her meaningfully, and he does it in a way that doesn't seek to offend her.

Michelle isn’t a terrible mother. He knows that. She’s tried her best all these years.

“Look,” She begins, somehow stern and resigned all at once. “There’s nothing more I want than to have more time for my son, or hell, even for myself, but bills need to be paid and--”

“Then consider this," says Harry, earnest as he slides a folder towards her.

Once she gets over her shock, Michelle glares at him, but he speaks first, “It’s not charity.”

“Yeah, what is it then?”

“Merely a way to get your foot in the door. There’s nothing wrong that. The rest would be up to you, your work ethic, your interest. The job doesn't only pay well with reasonable hours, they train you in several skills that you can grow into. Skills transferable to many other kinds of job that’s above entry level. That way, if you leave, you’ll have more options, with better positions and higher pay. You won't need to have two or three jobs at once.”

Michelle is clearly torn between sensibility and pride. She’s gone on for so long without accepting help, it’s always been clear to Harry that he needs to take this slow.

“...Can I think on it?”

“Of course.”

“There a deadline?”

“No," He gives her a small smile.

She stares at him for a very long time. “When do you think you’ll get over your guilt?”

 _‘Which one?’_ He doesn't ask her, and shrugs instead. “It doesn't have to be about guilt.”

“Yeah? What’s it about then?”

Harry pokes at his salad. “Life isn't fair. However, that doesn't mean I’ll simply stand back when I can do something about it instead. It wasn't easy for you all these years. With all your sacrifices, I can’t even imagine all the things you've missed out on with Eggsy.”

 _Of course you don’t have to imagine, you were there_ , a dark part of himself hisses, cruel. _Always watching, always there, but not when it mattered most_ \--

Harry grits his teeth, doing his best to appear relaxed. He runs his thumb over his left wrist. “Eggsy’s a teenager now. But that doesn’t mean it’s too late. It’s been said that teenagers can be reckless. I doubt that would be the case if he has you over his shoulder, has you to talk to and confide in.”

She huffs. “Teenage boys don't really say shit to their mums.”

“Mmm, but at least he’ll have the option. One thing I know to be true about him is that he loves his mother very much. He works hard, goes out of his way, hoping that you won’t have to.”

Michelle fiddles with her spoon, frowning, and Harry aims for her to meet his gaze.

“You’ve missed out on many things, but you don’t have to anymore. You can spend time with him before he goes off to live his life, you can catch the mistakes before they even happen, you can--" Harry keeps his breathing steady. “You can watch him fall in love.”

She smiles at that and chortles. “Don’t even get me started on that.”

“Please don’t," He manages to pull it off as being wry, and not like he’s about to genuinely die at the prospect. “I don’t need the details.”

Michelle laughs and watches him again, but she seems lighter this time. “You really ain’t so bad aren’t you, Harry Hart? Maybe you’re even a good person.”

He shakes his head, murmuring, “Not a good person, no.”

A terrible person.

A terrible person who might just have fallen in love.

 

\--

 

Eggsy doesn’t know how to tell his mum that he’s bought three containers of Italian food and that he wants to sneak them into a certain someone’s house.

Like, okay, he knows he and his mum were supposed to hang out today, but like, she’s out with her friends and he’s just waiting for a text. And he’s been wandering around London for hours and he’s getting tired and he wants to go home. Also, he has to get Galahad, among other things.

So...he might as well, right?

But then he doesn’t know whether or not Harry’s home. He doesn’t want him to be home when he sneaks it in, and he doesn’t wanna ask either. He doesn’t wanna stress him out, so now Eggsy’s the one stressing out, chomping on a kebab. He’s even got him some ugly arse fresh cherry tomatoes, which is just ridiculous.

Eggsy huffs, passing by another tube station, walking on and on and on with his bag of food. For fuck’s sake, he’s even procrastinating on getting on the tube.

Of course, he could just give up and tell his mum he’s bought the food for them to eat, but while his mum would eat anything--a poor people thing--Italian wouldn’t really be her first choice if she was given the chance. If she was rich, she’d be having steak and potatoes or something, and he knows that. ‘Cos he would be too.

He walks in a daze until he realises the street looks familiar. Eggsy’s pleased to see that he’s near the Barbican Centre, where he and Harry had their d--err where they watched like three films in a row. The Barbican’s one of those places where the tourists go and stuff. A lot of artsy things happen here, and there’s literally a posh drama school right next to it, so that means there’s another tube station here close by. And he’s right considering he eventually sees the directions.

Eggsy decides to just take a chance and follow the arrows. Besides, it should be like thirty to forty-five minutes to get to Harry’s place from here. It isn’t _too_ bad. He’ll just pop in, take Galahad and--

Ah, wait. He’s gonna hang out with his mum, he can’t take Galahad. Unless he goes to his mum’s place first, hide him under Eggsy's measly pillows. Maybe he and his mum can meet back at the flat, and they can leave together from there.

Yeah, sounds like a good plan.

He decides to call her.

And he doesn’t really know why he sees it in the corner of his eye, but he does, he sees it.

Across the street--A movement, someone picking up their mobile and putting it to their ear, and Eggsy turns his head to see that it’s someone who looks like his mum, but dressed kinda nice.

Eggsy’s vision goes a bit hazy.

She’s sitting behind the large glass windows of a Côte Brasserie, and she has the mobile to her ear, frowning. She double checks the phone again and huffs with something like self-deprecation and presses a button.

“ _‘Ello?_ ”

The words that Eggsy hears matches what the woman who looks like his mum’s saying, but Eggsy can’t say a fucking word, because she’s sitting right across Harry Hart.

Because they’re having fancy lunch in a fancy public place.

And Eggsy’s doing his best, his absolute best--his mind has stopped working seconds ago, he knows it, and he thinks he prefers it that way, but it starts working again and--

Harry’s handing her a bag of something, and she shoots him this annoyed look, but it really isn’t that annoyed, it’s more long-suffering like it’s not the first time, and maybe even a bit fond, maybe--

Maybe.

But it doesn’t matter.

Because she’s holding a finger to her lips, like she’s telling Harry to be quiet, a warning, like he has to be quiet because it’s a secret, it’s a secret that they’re in the same space, it’s a secret that they’re in the same space to Eggsy, and Eggsy can’t know, and Eggsy can’t know because---She opens her mouth.

“ _‘Ello? Eggsy?_ ” She checks.

And Harry’s tilting his head like he’s concerned, and she shrugs at him. “ _Must be an accidental dial. Could be busy with his girl,_ ” She turns coy all of a sudden, waggling her eyebrows, and Harry doing that thing where he’s rubbing a thumb on his left wrist, and Eggsy finds himself gripping _hard_ at the bruises on his own.

Eggsy’s blinking and blinking, because it’s all he can do until the nausea finally  _hits_ him. And it hits him so hard he can’t fucking _breathe_ , and he legitimately wants to throw up on the street right there.

Because it all makes sense.

The interest in his future, the safety talk with the condoms, the consideration for his mum.

It’s all finally coming together.

Everyone’s been seeing it: Max, Ryan, Jamal, _Yvonne,_ and probably everyone who’s ever seen them together.

Everyone’s been seeing it but Eggsy himself.

His sight goes blurry, and he looks down to see that the bag of food is shaking--because his hands are shaking, and he doesn’t know what to do.

He doesn’t know what to do because his mum looks fucking happy and his world is _falling apart._

Eggsy manages to drop the call before he fucking heaves.

 

 


	22. 21

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> aha.  
> ahahahhaa

 

After he’s found a quieter place to settle down, after he’s stopped shaking and sniffling and drying his stupid fucking tears against the sleeves of Harry’s dumb arse waterproof jacket--which doesn’t do shit by the way, because it’s fucking waterproof--he does his best to sound normal and calls Anna.

Because maybe Eggsy’s got it all wrong. Maybe he’s being extra dramatic.

So of course, of course, he goes to check it out.

“ _Eggsy?_ ”

“Yeah, hey, I know the massage thing has been postponed but I just have a few questions about my mum.”

“ _Questions?_ ”

“Yeah, like,” He fakes a laugh, “Like she been talkin’ to you ‘bout anyone lately? Like if she’s...like she’s been seein’ someone?”

“ _Actually, to be honest, I haven’t talked to your mum in a while. I’m sorry. Why? You think she is?_ ”

Anna hasn’t talked to his mum in a while. So all this time she’s been saying she has to go meet a friend---it wasn’t Anna, but it doesn’t mean it isn’t true, it doesn’t mean that--

“Aha, maybe. She’s been havin’ that a bit of glow to her, ya know? Playin’ that Whitney Houston shite at home, it’s drivin’ me up the wall. I’m just wonderin’ if there is. I’m gonna have to go check them out--Oh god, don’t tell her that--I just--” He stammers, and he doesn’t know whether or not he’s doing it on purpose, “I just need to check that it doesn’t end up like the last bloke, you know?”

He laughs awkwardly, and he can tell that Anna’s doing that sad pitying look she gives him sometimes. Because she’s nice and she cares, and he hates that he’s playing her like this, but he does it anyway. “I kinda have to, or else we’ll end up at your place again, squatters in hiding.”

“ _Eggsy, you and your mum are always welcome at my place. But yeah, I’ll check with the others. I don’t think your mum is still in contact with her other friends too, she’s been busy with work, I reckon. She has been for a very long time--Hopefully it’s nothing, and if it is something, better to check it out than not. But call the police or something, don’t get hurt._ ”

“‘F’course not. But please don’t tell?” He pleads.

Anna sighs. “ _I won’t._ ”

“You’re the best, Anna.”

Eggsy left to stare at the vandalised stall door in front of him for a while. Every time he thinks he’s got himself covered and in check, the emotions rise up again, threatening to grab him by the throat until he chokes and cries.

_This is pathetic, this is pathetic, you are pathetic._

And then he’s angry.

He’s angry when he gets out of that hellhole, he’s angry when he gets to the tube station, and he’s angry when he eventually gets out to Gloucester Road.

He’s angry when he marches his way to Harry’s house, and he’s angry when he breaks in.

He’s angry when he leaves the stupid cartons of Italian food in the kitchen when he could have given it to the few homeless people he’s come across, the people who actually need it and not the posh fuck who’s charming his mum, and worst of all, he’s angry at himself.

Because it’s his fault.

Because he’s stupid, and he’s pathetic, and he fell--

You know what? Fuck that. It wasn’t real.

None of it was real.

Harry was just nice, and no one’s ever treated Eggsy nice for a long time, and that’s why he thought--

That’s why he was dumb and stupid and thought he fell in love.

It wasn’t real. It was just some pathetic shit that Quinlan could probably diagnose in a second, just like that.

Quinlan.

 _Quinlan_.

“ _What is it now---_ ”

“Did you know?” Eggsy asks, short and detached.

“ _...What?_ ”

“Did. you. know?”

“ _...Know what?_ ” Quinlan sounds toneless in that way he has to be when he gets nervous about something. And that just pisses Eggsy off, that makes him paranoid more than he already is right now.

“The whole 'daddy' thing, was that--" He burns with shame, "--Did you know that Harry Hart was meetin’ with my mum, that she’s happy with him and he’s--” Eggsy’s breath _hitches_ and it drives him fucking _insane_ , because he’s weak, he’s fucking weak. Because Harry was just nice because he was probably charming him first, hoping that Eggsy wouldn’t protest against it too much when Harry and his mum finally broke the news that they were a thing. That’s it. It all makes sense.

He remembers the two of them meeting before, at Anna’s place and at that one café on the weekends and whatever days his mum made shitty excuses about. And he had his suspicions even then but he completely fucking forgot about it.

Harry and his mum have been seeing each other since then. Maybe even before that. How long has this been going on? Since April? March?

It’s the simplest explanation and he didn’t even fucking see it. It was right in front of him all along. While he was fantasising about Harry coming home to him, fantasising about spending the holidays with him--Christmas, for fuck’s sake, birthdays and New Year’s-- _reality_ was at work.

Why the fuck else would a grown man spend so much time with a fucking teenager? Why would someone care so fucking much about his future, his fucking safety in general and in his non-existent sex life? These are the same damn things that his mum worries about. And Harry was taking care of him the way his mum would want him to be taken care of by a father figure.

Fuck.

They were co-parenting his dumb arse.

It’s so transparent, even a child could’ve figured it out. And that’s fucking humiliating. It’s so fucking humiliating that his throat closes up again and his eyes start _burning_.

“ _Eggsy, no. That’s not--It’s probably not what it was. Eggsy, look, I don’t know everything like everyone thinks I do--for fuck’s sake, breathe, Eggsy--You’re probably just overreacting--_ ”

“Fuck you.” He snaps his mobile shut.

He works to calm himself down before calling his mum.

“I’m sorry we can’t hang out today, I’m not feelin’ good.”

There’s a sigh of genuine disappointment, and underneath all the anger, it hurts him too. He doesn’t like disappointing his mum. She rarely gets days off, he knows. “Well, that’s alright, Eggsy. I have some food and dessert for you.”

“Oh yeah?” He can’t help but prod, hiding his bitterness, “Where they from? What are they?”

“Err, some place me and my friends ate at, I don’t even remember. But lemme check what’s in the box--steak frites? And lemon tarts or something. One of my friends ordered, then decided not to eat it--they’re a bit odd like that, and the bill was already payed, so I took it home.”

Eggsy grits his teeth.

 _Friends_. Right.

“Bye, mum. M’Sorry.”

 

\--

 

When Harry gets home, he briefly tenses at the [music](https://drive.google.com/file/d/0B6aF7_1BmgYpZ2lVd3NZRTJMZUE/view?usp=sharing) he hears playing.

But who else could it be but Eggsy?

And that’s who he sees, sitting on the armchair, staring emptily into nothing.

Harry doesn’t know what to feel. Eggsy’s not supposed to be here. While he was warned that he would be returning for the rest of his things, he said it would be quick. As of right now, he can clearly see that Eggsy is lingering. On the other hand, it’s overwhelmingly pathetic of Harry to miss Eggsy’s presence when it’s barely been a day.

He clears his throat lightly. But Eggsy doesn’t react to it.

“...Eggsy?”

Eggsy’s hands twitch on the armrests.

“D’you know what this song is?”

“...No, I’m afraid not,” Harry finds himself cautiously answering, and Eggsy looks at him then.

Harry can’t read him. It makes him uncomfortable.

“This song, it’s my mum and da’s song,” Eggsy tells him, and Harry nods because it feels like it’s important to nod. “My mum didn’t tell stories often, but she had to ‘cos this came on the radio once and she started cryin’. So she had to tell me that this was their song, that my da kept singing this at her off-key every time he had to leave for his Royal Marine shit until she sang it back at him. ‘Cos they were dumb and in love, and she’d promise to always wait for him, no matter what, no matter where he was in the world, and no matter what terrible shit he was doing in the name of queen and fucking country.”

Harry can only stare, devastated. Maybe Eggsy has changed his mind about blaming Harry for his father’s death. It would be completely understandable. Harry wouldn’t blame him at all.

Eggsy stares back, and Harry lets the guilt and discomfort show through, swallowing. For a brief second, Harry thinks he sees Eggsy’s expression go shuttered, but then it’s gone, the way the song is ending.

"How was your day, Harry?"

"...It was fine."

"Yeah?" Eggsy prompts, "Did you have lunch? Was it good?"

Without any conceivable explanation, instinct immediately has Harry shaking his head before he can even think about it. 

Eggsy tilts his head. "No, it wasn't good? Or no, you didn't have lunch?"

"None at all." Harry shakes his head again, and he finds himself murmuring, "Just another one of those meetings."

Maybe, just maybe, he can have lunch with Eggsy one last time. "Would you like--"

"Another of those meetings..." Eggsy's expression shows nothing but his voice falters.

Before Harry can ask what's wrong, Eggsy stands.

“There’s food in the kitchen.” He moves to leave the living room and into the hallway, but he pauses. “Don’t worry. I’m just gonna get my stuff, and then I’m out.”

When he’s disappeared out of sight, Harry finally exhales, puzzled at what he could have done wrong. That’s what it certainly feels like.

He checks the kitchen and is delighted to find the food. He wasn’t satisfied with what he’s had earlier, he barely touched it. Harry helps himself to the variety of Italian food, rather pleased at the quality. It almost seems authentic, the kind that even the most expensive restaurants around London can’t quite get accurately.

Unable to completely ignore the heavy sensation in his stomach, he slows down in his chewing, sensing Eggsy upstairs. Harry frowns.

Something’s not right, and the sentiment is emphasised by the eventual steps down the stairs, loud and brisk. Setting his fork down, Harry goes through the side doorway that leads to the hallway and the stairs instead, but Eggsy only passes him by as if he doesn’t even see him.

Harry’s dismay is partially distracted by the baffling fact that other than a white shoebox and an Ikea shark under his arm, Eggsy only has a single plastic bag. It's full of clothes and items, but it doesn’t even cover everything in the wardrobe alone, much less everything else in his room.

“Eggsy…” Harry begins as he follows him, but it’s as if Eggsy’s not hearing him at all.

“Eggsy,” He repeats, but it’s almost like Eggsy’s walking faster, turning left towards the foyer, and Harry’s getting the insistent sense that something’s terribly wrong and so he makes to put a hand on his arm, merely to slow him down a bit--

Eggsy immediately turns around and roughly shakes him off, causing the box in his hold to fall to the floor. “Don’t you _fucking_ touch me.”

Harry flinches, helplessly taking a step back, arms slightly raised, but the look on Eggsy’s face is overwhelmingly devastating.

“What’s wrong?”

“‘ _What’s wrong_ ’?” Eggsy repeats back at him, scoffing incredulously. In a split-second, his face turns dreadfully blank, “I saw you. I saw you with her, I saw you with my mum.”

Mouth agape, Harry struggles to speak. “Well, we--” He stops. He doesn’t even know what he would say. Clearly, he’s broken some kind of trust. But if Michelle hasn’t told Eggsy of their meetings, there must have been a reason for that.

“Yeah, I fucking saw you,” Eggsy seethes, “I figured it out. I figured _you_ out.”

Harry can only stare.

“You being nice, trying to get me to soften up, all so you can get to my mum. Real fuckin’ clever of you Harry,” Eggsy spits out as tries to pick up the box, one handed. It’s wobbly in his grip, too big and too heavy, and he ultimately throws it on a side table in a fit of rage, the lid upending and the contents spilling out. The IWM items. “You know what, you can fucking keep that shit. I know it’s you,” Eggsy accuses, gutted and wild with fury, breathing laboured, nearly sounding like a sob at the end, “It’s always been you, hasn’t it?”

Harry swallows, but it doesn’t keep the shame and guilt away. “Eggsy, it’s not--”

“You can keep every damn thing you bought for me,” Eggsy tells him in absolute indignation, accent thick and erratic, “But not him. I’m keepin’ him, I’m keepin’ Galahad,” Eggsy gestures to the Ikea shark under his arm, “I’ll pay you back. I don’t care whatever it fucking takes. It won’t even be from the salary from that fucking job you gave me, and I think I’ll go quit that too. I don’t need your shit. _We_ don’t need your shit.”

“Eggsy, no, please,” Harry tries in genuine despair, a hand starting to reach for him, but he can’t possibly touch him, he can’t.

The laughter that Eggsy lets out is rough. “You wanted me to leave?” Eggsy takes a few steps closer, grin mangled and sharp, getting close to stare up at Harry’s face, cruel and challenging, “Well, I’m fucking leaving.”

 

 

 


	23. 22

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> nothing happens...except drama.  
> so much drama  
> ...it's a mess.
> 
> if you forgot Eggsy was a teenager, well, now you won't

 

The house is empty.

Other than Harry, of course.

Therefore, it’s simply not fair as to why it feels that way when that’s how it’s always been all these years. In his adult life, Harry has mostly lived alone, discounting the parts related to his profession which has required shared quarters and spaces.

But this is different. This is home.

And it’s not supposed to feel this way.

Solitude has always been something he’s been used to, something he’s always preferred and even enjoyed.

Harry has been spending the last few days thinking it through.

It’s all a terrible misunderstanding. Harry had simply needed to discuss Eggsy’s future, and he decided to take Michelle out in public for the sake of propriety and appearance despite his apprehensions.

His resolve was only strengthened after Mycroft’s unwelcome stunt in the bookshop.

One of the reasons why Harry was always cagey about meeting with Michelle under the sight of surveillance systems was the possibility of anyone using the Unwins as leverage. Largely, it was to keep Eggsy safe and hidden away.

But since Mycroft had come out with his own deranged ideas, it was better to set up a pretense; A man and a woman having a meal in London. They could be co-workers, they could be friends. They could be more. Anyone watching would never come to the same conclusion that Mycroft has.

In the event that Mycroft would ever share and reveal his findings to someone like Arthur, Harry would need a rebuttal. He would need evidence.

After what Mycroft did in the bookshop, among other things, Harry couldn’t simply be inactive about this issue.

Being in his line of work, Harry is used to being watched. He’s acted in certain ways, he’s lied, he’s manipulated, he’s killed, he’s fucked, he’s been tortured and he has tortured---these are things that most people would consider private or shameful, especially with the knowledge that someone will ultimately see it.

And that is because no one likes being vulnerable, much less to be perceived as such.

Harry’s never had a problem with that. If he did, he would have gotten over it quickly after his first few years in Kingsman. He was merely doing his job, and he’d do whatever it takes to get it done--Where’s the vulnerability in that? In fact, he even took pride in it.

His actions and reactions were always reviewed with a fine-tooth comb.

He’s used to that. That’s part of his job. That’s part of the lifestyle that comes with his job.

But not Eggsy.

Never Eggsy.

Eggsy should be _untouchable_.

No one should ever get that close to Eggsy. Especially not Mycroft Holmes.

Clearly, Harry’s attempt to combat the impending problem has backfired in excess.

Of course Eggsy would be upset at the prospect that Harry might have inclinations towards Michelle. He must have felt manipulated, as if everything Harry’s ever done for him was only a way to get to Michelle or a way to soften the blow if such a relationship was ever to take place.

The resentment must be exemplary.

And Harry doesn’t want that. Harry doesn’t want that at all.

Yet every time his hands attempt to start a new message to send to Eggsy, he finds himself deleting it in the end.

Isn’t it better this way?

Isn’t this what he wanted?

Isn’t this how it’s supposed to be?

And so Harry decides to spend his time in Kingsman. He avoids Arthur, and if he isn’t holed up in his office catching up on the state of international security and eating the last of the cherry tomatoes that Eggsy had left in his kitchen, Harry makes polite conversation with all kinds of employees and trains in the gym with medical approval and limitations.

When Harry leaves his house, it’s unavoidable to pass by the bookshop. But never once does he see Eggsy in there.

He worries that Eggsy actually went on to quit his job when he was doing so well. Everything was going so well.

This time around, Harry enters the bookshop.

“Oh, you’re Gary’s step-dad!”

Harry stiffens. This employee, Max, immediately backtracks.

“Ah, no wait, sorry. Inside joke--sort of. You’re the bloke who’s dating Eggsy’s mum, nothing official yet, I know.” He laughs awkwardly before clearing his throat. “Anything I can do for you?”

“...Where is Gary?”

Max frowns at him. “Err, didn’t you know? He took his leave.”

His heart sinks, but he keeps his head held high.

“...His leave?”

“He’s a minor who’s still technically in school,” Max tells him, as if Harry doesn’t already know that, as if that isn’t what keeps him up at night, “It’s a statutory requirement for them to have two consecutive weeks without employment during the holidays.”

“Ah.”

“Gary called in two, three days ago. The owner’s really nice, and we’re just a small shop, and Gary’s been super great overall, so of course he got approved for it right away. You didn’t know?”

“Thank you for your time.”

 

\--

 

“Eggsy, your sleeping schedule’s been shit these past few days,” His mum tells him as he sleepily makes his way to the kitchen.

“Why are you even here? Don’t you have work?” Eggsy deflects, annoyed, chomping on a fucking banana.

She gives him an exasperated look. “I do have work, but I agreed to switch the last second. Becky’s daughter’s an understudy and the main actress finally got into an accident, so she’s gonna get to be on the West End starting next weekend. Becky wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

Fucking Becky.

“So you gonna be here all day?”

His mum narrows her eyes at him. “Why have you been in a mood?”

Eggsy purses his lips. “M’fine. Just gonna spend the day with my mates, it’s fine.”

“Be careful, you hear? There’s that thing on the news going on lately--”

“It’s London, mum, weirdos are everywhere,” He mutters, thinking of that posh fuck in a three-piece suit.

“Yeah, except there are _bodies_ , Eggsy.”

“There’s always gonna be bodies droppin’. They ain’t connected,” He tells her, miffed. If he had a clearer head, he’d feel bad for being blasé about it because they’re mostly dead young people, but right now he’s just constantly irritated by everything. Especially by the fact that Eggsy’s all caught up with the news _now_ , of course, considering he’s spent the past few weeks in a blind fucking haze. “Stop fretting about it. I’m just gonna be with my mates. That should be enough of a buddy system for you, yeah?”

“You sure? We could go out to the cinema and watch a film?”

Nausea grips him by the stomach at the involuntary memories involving cinemas. “No. We’re poor. We shouldn’t waste money like that.”

She huffs. “We’re not gonna die if we watch one film, Eggsy.”

“Yeah, well, I might,” He lies. “I love you but I can’t be seen watching a film with my mum.”

She gasps in mock outrage. “Gary Unwin, you--”

“Bye.”

Eggsy’s thought a lot these past few days. He shouldn’t be angry at his mum. He shouldn’t be. And he’s trying, he’s trying his best.

It’s not her fault.

It’s not her fault that her life is shitty, it’s not her fault that a nice man came along.

It’s not her fault that Eggsy thought he fell in love with that same man.

It’s his fault.

It’s his fault for being stupid.

It’s his fault for giving into thinking that there was ever a chance.

Who the fuck could ever want Eggsy anyway?

And so Eggsy spends his time with his mates. He annoys them, over-eager. He laughs a bit too loud, but Ryan and Jamal only share a glance and don’t mention it. He steals Ryan’s badly hidden stash of cigarettes, relishing how he chokes on the burn and how it brings water to his eyes. Like that’s the only reason for that to ever happen.

He drinks alcohol too, pretends that’s the only reason why he has a bitter taste in his mouth.

When his mates have the time, they mess about in London, running around in the rain, checking out girls, ‘cos that’s what teenage boys do.

Teenage boys don’t fall for men more than twice their age. Teenage boys don’t fall for the same people their mums do.

So Eggsy hides things under his mattress. His journal, his mobiles. He doesn’t even fully unpack his rucksack from Harry’s place. Even then, he still gets calls and messages from Quinlan in his old Nokia, but he ignores it.

Eggsy gets into habits.

He stares at his own shitty wardrobe everyday, and he decides to be proud of them.

This is who he is. This is what he’ll always be.

He’s poor, he’s reckless, he ain’t worth shit.

 

\--

 

“Excuse me?” Morgause blinks at him.

“I said,” Harry emphasises, “The _issue_ has been dealt with.”

There’s a long moment of silence before she speaks.

“And...I’m certain that’s why you look like shit.”

Harry exhales through his nose, impatient. “That’s what you said before.”

“Correction: I’m certain that’s why you look like _more_ shit than you did before.”

“Morgause--”

“What’s with your hand?”

“Pardon?”

“Why the single glove?” She pointedly glances at Harry’s left hand and the dark glove that reaches slightly past the watch that encircles it.

“Work injury.”

“Severe?”

“No.”

“Recent?”

“Some time ago.”

They hold each other’s gaze, unwilling to retreat.

“I could be lying,” Harry begins, “Maybe I just didn’t want to admit that I lost the other half.”

“Mmm...‘other half’--Did you kill them?”

For fuck’s sake. Bloody psychiatrists and their wordplay.

Harry grits his teeth. “...No.”

“Then how was your _issue_ ‘dealt’ with?”

Harry turns to gaze out the window, pursing his lips. “The issue dealt with itself.”

 

\--»

 

“I think you’re stressed,” Yvonne says, palming at his shoulders.

Eggsy frowns at the ceiling, unsure how it ended up like this. He was only here to tell her he didn’t want those stuff anymore even though he could have just texted her. Still, he tries for a wry tone when he replies. “Oh yeah? What gave it away?”

“Hmm,” She stalls, feeling up his arms, “Take your jacket off, lemme see.”

He snorts. “Nice try.” He’s wearing a long-sleeved shirt underneath his jacket anyway. Eggsy’s still hiding the bruises. “It’s your mattress,” He evades instead, sitting back on the pile of pillows. “It’s too soft. Stresses me out.”

She pouts, fingers playing at the zipper of his jacket. “Mmm, well, you’ll have time to get used to it. You know what’s the best way to get rid of stress? I can help you with that.”

“Yeah?” He plays along, taking a swig of some fruity arse drink before putting it back on the nightstand. “D’you happen to know any underground fighting clubs?”

“Not playing hard to get, my arse,” Yvonne mutters, rolling her eyes, giving up and laying the back of her head on his ribs. “And if I did, that wouldn’t be good for my reputation.”

“Which one? You live a double-life, Yev. The innocent, goody two-shoes schoolgirl versus...you.”

“A girl’s gotta find a way to live on the edges.” She hands him a Sugar Daddy lollipop and Eggsy purses his lips despite accepting it. He doesn’t even bother unwrapping it.

“You know how you said you could seduce Mr. Hart?” He finds himself starting.

Her eyebrows are accusing and sarcastic. “You know how you said your mum deserved nice things?”

Eggsy takes a pillow and puts it over his own head, ready to die.

Eventually, Yvonne chuckles. “Do you want to snog?”

“Thought you were gonna save me for Alicia,” He mumbles.

“Well, I have to make sure you know what you’re doing, now don’t I?”

Slightly moving the pillow aside, he peeks at her, frowning. “I genuinely wonder about that.”

“What?” She questions, muffled around her Sugar Daddy lollipop.

“You’re so hyped up in trying to make this all so perfect--which could be just an excuse, but still. There might be a chance you’re actually not a bad friend.”

“Excuse you,” Yvonne protests, actually taking out the lollipop in offence to point it at him. “I’m the perfect friend.”

“Pfft,” Eggsy chortles in disbelief. “I’m pretty sure _I_ wouldn’t want my mates testing out potential shag partners for me.”

She sniffs, evasive. “Well, you know how it is, gals being pals--Or that could just be me. It’s her grand sixteenth birthday. Gotta make sure.”

“Remember that _girlfriend_ I talked to you about?” He’s torn in admitting that it was a lie, but he needs some sort of leverage. Eggsy needs to keeps his clothes on for as long as it takes until the bruises fade away. He’s ashamed of them, and he doesn’t want anyone to see. It disgusts him.

That doesn’t really explain how he keeps pressing on his bruises like he doesn’t want them to fade away.

Anyway, he’s pretty sure he could fuck with his clothes on, but Yvonne would probably find a way to take them off.

“Mmm, I don’t mind,” She tells him, carefree. “Bring her over too.”

He shoots her an unamused look. “It’s not that easy.”

“I can play nice. I’ll convince her,” Yvonne insists before perking up. “Hey, have you considered dancing?”

“Dancing,” Eggsy repeats, tone flat. He’s suspicious of the glint in her eyes.

“For stress relief. Instead of fighting,” She suggests, sucking at the lollipop again. “Monday, three in the afternoon. Pineapple Dance Studios in Covent Garden--Unless you can’t handle it?”

Eggsy scoffs.

Whatever it takes to keep his mind off things. He’ll do it.

That doesn’t really explain why he ends up taking the plaque and the lunchbox full of lollipops home.

 

\--»

 

Harry ignores the incessant messages from Quinlan-- _threats_ , more like, telling him to ‘fix it’.

Harry doesn’t know what to fix.

And he tries not to think about it anymore. Tries not to think about what things Eggsy has told Quinlan, tries not to think whether or not Eggsy still hates him. He tries not to think how disgusted Quinlan would be if he knew the truth about Harry’s attachment to his best friend.

“I’d like to go back into the field,” Harry tells Merlin.

Condescension is a familiar expression on Merlin. It almost feels as if nothing’s happened, as if Harry has always been here and loyal to Kingsman, as if everything is normal and Harry doesn’t spend a few seconds longer than he needs to when he enters his own home, standing in the foyer, simply sensing how empty it all is.

“Have you gone mad?”

“I truly might if you don’t give me an assignment.”

Merlin huffs, turning away to ignore him and focus on the screens.

“I know this medical leave business is punishment,” Harry tells him. “End this pettiness immediately.”

“As for the cure to the madness, I’m quite certain Morgause has a handle on that, considering you’ve checked in quite often into psych. Unless, of course, you’re checking in for a different reason entirely--”

“For fuck’s sake, Merlin,” Harry snaps, turning around to leave and disappear for hours in the gym.

Harry finds himself having a late dinner in the mess hall when there’s barely anyone around. Even Mordred’s finishing up his meal already. Before the boy leaves, however, he looks mildly uncomfortable and hesitant, clearly torn whether or not he should keep his mouth shut.

Harry raises a superior eyebrow.

“Agent Galahad,” Mordred begins, hushed. “Is it really necessary to wear those gloves?”

Harry frowns at his leather gloves. They match fine with his current attire. “What about them?”

Discomfort is prevalent in his expression and Harry raises both eyebrows this time, making Mordred blurt out, “You look like a serial killer.”

There’s a brief pause before Harry gets the sudden urge to laugh, but it's one he manages to suppress. He doesn’t completely succeed in trying not to react, however, considering that the corner of his mouth twitches.

Because that’s what Eggsy would probably say.

The mere acknowledgement that he’s thinking of him forces Harry to shut down and move on.

“Technically,” Harry begins, staring Mordred in the eye, “I am.”

Mordred gapes. “Right, of course--Of course, sir, Agent Galahad--” He babbles on, and Harry tries not to enjoy making his life difficult. At least not _too_ much.

He rolls his eyes. “Go, Mordred.”

Merlin sits across from him a few minutes later.

There’s only silence. Harry has been told before that he holds grudges in that passive-aggressive way. Despite all his protest and denial at such accusations, he finds himself wanting to keep his mouth shut until Merlin speaks first, because he certainly won’t be the one to give in.

But then Harry’s concentrated on spearing a cherry tomato with his fork, and he suddenly remembers how Eggsy desperately abhors the things to the point of absolute revulsion, and yet somehow Harry finds it terribly _endearing_ and--

“Have you considered waterproof socks?” Harry finds himself gruffly saying in an attempt to distract himself. Which, as he eventually realises, doesn’t exactly get him very far.

Merlin stares at him oddly.

“What is wrong with you?”

“It’s quite a simple concept,” Harry evades. “I don’t know why no one in here has thought about it before. It’s brilliant. Revolutionary.”

“Harry,” Merlin intones, “You’re not getting an assignment unless I know what’s wrong with you.”

Eventually, Harry nods, pursing his lips.

 

»

 

It’s past midnight when they both make their way to Merlin’s home.

They sit across from each other at the dining table, an old bottle of scotch between them.

Harry doesn't drink, leading Merlin to scrutinise him.

“Is there something else you prefer?”

Harry doubts that Merlin has any fruit juice in his arsenal. Of course, he could have taken a juice-box from his own pantry and sneaked it into his briefcase. It’s not as if the chances of Eggsy coming back for them are anywhere near possible as it is.

“Some tea would be nice.”

Merlin rolls his eyes, muttering under his breath as he goes to set the kettle. After simply nursing his tea, Harry finally meets Merlin’s gaze.

“I might be in love.”

It’s strange to hear it out loud in his own voice. It almost doesn't seem real. But despite the warring emotions that rise up with the admission, he thinks his shoulders feel less burdened. Just a little bit.

In the silence, Merlin stares at him for a long time before narrowing his eyes.

“What?”

“You asked what’s wrong with me," supplies Harry, and after a few long seconds of nothing, he moves on, “I didn't think you’d believe me if I told you. Clearly, I was right.”

“...You’re serious?”

“Unfortunately--At least, that’s what the professional evaluation is.”

“...It’s not Mordred, is it?”

“No. Nor is it Morgause,” Harry beats him to it. “Though it would be easier to let you believe either.”

Tilting his head, Merlin watches him closely. “But…?”

“I don’t wish to lie,” Harry admits. He’s tired. Of course, he can’t reveal everything more, but that’s one less thing to worry about. One less thing to hide and make a pretense for.

“Who is it?” Merlin asks, calm.

“It doesn't matter."

“If you’re this affected, it matters,” Merlin rationalises.

“I’m working on it. I’ve been going to psych. We’re working on resolving the issue.”

“...The ‘issue’?” Merlin’s brows ultimately furrow, and he begins to look uncomfortable. “You do know that this isn’t...much of an issue as you’re making it out to be?”

Harry shakes his head slightly, not meeting his gaze.

_Not if you knew who it was._

Harry had seen the look behind Merlin’s eyes earlier when he was guessing who it was. It was almost as if he had a candidate in mind, but the idea of it was almost unthinkable that he had said nothing more.

Or maybe Harry’s simply projecting his paranoia.

“In this line of work,” Harry evades instead, “It _is_ an issue. And it is an issue I am in the process of--” He stops and starts over. “I’m telling you this because I’m asking you to trust me.”

Straightening in his seat, Merlin nods and waits.

This is difficult and Harry knows this could easily backfire, but he persists. “I’m telling you this because I’m trusting you to stay away. There are matters I wish to keep to myself. All my life has been laid out for Kingsman to see. This is different. I need--I'm trusting you to stay away until it's fixed. Until I'm...prepared.”

Frowning, Merlin continues to watch him carefully. “What is the ‘issue’ here exactly? So you might be in love. Does this affect your actions in the field? And--” Merlin pauses, a certain realisation dawning on him.

For a split-second, Harry feels a terror running up his spine--until he reasons that Merlin would look much, much worse if he’s actually figured it out.

But Merlin only presses his lips together, looking rather contrite for being too slow in picking up on it. “Ah, the honeypot assignments.”

Now, it’s Harry’s turn to be chagrined. “That’s…inconsequential.”

Merlin raises an eyebrow. “Is it? If so, then what are you in psych for?”

Harry lets himself appear uncomfortable, and Merlin sighs. “Don’t worry about it. I can take you off the list. Or at the very least, put you last.”

“No,” Harry shakes his head, determined. “This is my job. I am to do whatever it takes to get it done. There shouldn’t be any special preferences.”

“Harry, people are better in some things than others, and that’s usually how agents are assigned to their missions, you know this. You should--”

“I’m good at fucking.”

Merlin rolls his eyes. “Yes, well. Too bad. Your cock doesn’t work because apparently it has gained a sense of loyalty, that’s not your fault--”

“I’m working on it,” Harry cuts him off, short. There’s a desperate need to move on from this subject. It was all a lie to begin with. It has nothing to do with this whole predicament he’s found himself in. “It’s simply...an inconvenient situation. One that will be resolved. I will tell you when I’m ready. I’m trusting you to trust me to deal with this. I’ve been making progress--” _I’ve been alone. My house has been empty for the last few days_ , “--I’ve been going to psych, I’ve been following the medical restrictions, I’ve been reviewing previous and current missions, I am up to date on the political state of the world, my desk is clean and there’s no paperwork in sight. I am ready for active duty.”

For a long time, Merlin simply watches him. The silence holds all kinds of hazards on what he’s possibly thinking, and Harry doesn’t know if he wants to agonise himself mulling it over. However, Merlin only huffs, listless. “That’s the least of your problems.”

“Pardon?”

Merlin’s shaking his head, wry and still quite disbelieving. “You, Harry Hart, in love? Fuck’s sake. Whoever they are, they better know what they’re getting into. You have a possessive streak bigger than the size of the old British Empire.”

Utterly appalled, Harry is distracted for once, narrowing his eyes in offence. “Such an accusation--Where would you even have gotten that kind of impression?”

Such disdain on Merlin’s expression shouldn’t be so comforting. To be fair, he hasn’t seen it in a long time. “Harry, you won’t even share a fucking spoon.”

“What does that have to do with anything?”

Merlin actually _chuckles_ and Harry stares in bewilderment as he goes on, “I just can’t even imagine how you’re going to be with an actual human being--I wouldn’t be surprised if you tell me you locked them in a dungeon somewhere, far away from the world and prying eyes,” Merlin scoffs, and Harry does his absolute best not to flinch. “In fact, how can I be sure that’s not what you’ve been doing these past few weeks? That would explain your behaviour. Maybe you’ve left them in bed, covered with marks and bruises--”

Harry feels sick at the idea, revulsion boiling away like acid in his stomach. “It is not like that--It’s not--”

Merlin stops, the humour disappearing only to be replaced by concern and careful curiosity. “It’s not what?”

 

»»

 

“It’s not about sex?” Morgause repeats.

 _No, it can’t possibly be,_ Harry immediately thinks. _Not when it’s about a bloody child._

Harry holds his head high, lecturing on. “Love and sex, they’re different things. As you very well know, Morgause.”

“Mmm,” She nods slowly. “But then you also have a history of severe repression and denial, so…”

He levels her with an icy glare.

Morgause only purses her lips with concentration as she keeps on observing him. “Harry Hart and hesitation. They don’t go together.” She tilts her head. “No matter the biological sex, that can’t possibly be the issue. In this line of work, you’ve been involved with females _and_ males before.”

Harry keeps his mouth shut.

“Is it class difference, perhaps?” She keeps on guessing, but she answers her own question, “No, people might care, but you don’t. Circumstance, that’s what it is, but what kind, specifically?”

“I reserve the right to not speak about this,” Harry says, quiet.

“You are here for a reason, Galahad. You shouldn’t be delaying your progress,” She tells him, not unkind, “Besides, what else could you possibly talk about that’s of any importance?”

“A boy,” Harry finds himself saying.

Slowly, Morgause straightens in her seat, and Harry backtracks immediately, “He works here. He’s unhappy with his designation.”

She fractionally narrows her eyes before settling down and going along. “A _boy_ with a designation? What does this have to do with anything?”

“I thought that you might have some insight to help him along,” Harry begins, letting the situation wash over him, “This tradition of... _awarding_ the highest capable trainee with an undesirable codename is…” He trails off. It should be self-explanatory, and Morgause nods, conceding.

“Arthur believes it creates character,” She drawls, but the look in her eyes clearly gives away what she really thinks about that.

“You kept yours. You had the luxury to change it once you took over the department. You didn’t.”

“I’m not the only one. There’s Nimueh and Morgana as well, along with Dagonet.”

“Mmm, they’ve merely followed suit. It seems you’ve started a rebellion,” Harry muses.

Morgause shrugs lightly. “I thought it was fitting. I was the first female head of a Kingsman department--At least within the UK Branch. I wasn’t well-liked despite my accomplishments, and some people still believe I’m here due to nepotism. I’ve lived with it.”

“So it _does_ create character.” Harry narrows his eyes, perplexed.

“It depends on context. Psychologically, it’s simply not advised to reward exemplary behaviour or achievement with this... _honour_. Despite the outlook that it’s a coveted accomplishment to be assigned such a thing, it is my...assessment that it still breeds resentment one way or another, a resentment that could be buried deep within the subconscious, unpredictable in its emergence,” Morgause drones on, meeting his gaze blankly.

Harry raises an eyebrow. “How does that make you feel?”

She shoots him a patronising look. “Your deflection would be comical if it weren’t detracting from your issues.”

He sits up straight once more, adjusting his suit. “What do I tell him?”

“Why do you feel the need to fix it for him?” Morgause asks. “Other than, what, letting the problem consume you so that you can ignore your own?”

“He’s just a boy,” Harry supplies, trying not to think about someone else, “A brilliant one at that. Kingsman and its employees are of the highest calibre, and while resilient in arduous tasks and situations, it’s unnecessary that they should be treated in such a childish manner--The way you were,” He tells her, sincere. “It’s a bizarre initiation, something quite juvenile. As you’ve said, resentment over something so facetious would not be ideal. I’m sure the dramatic irony over assigning someone an undesirable designation will eventually be problematic, and quite easily preventable in hindsight.”

“To be fair, I might be biased,” Morgause announces, staring directly into one of the cameras in the room, “There’s a possibility I might’ve disliked dear old Uncle Chester long before I was Morgause.”

For the first time in the last few days, Harry huffs out a laugh, genuinely pleased. It promptly tapers off.

“Does this count as treason?” He asks softly, mind far away.

“I said ‘there’s a possibility’. Hardly definite.”

“Hardly.”

There’s only silence before Morgause finally deigns to speak. “Tell Mordred to keep his head held high.”

Harry scowls. “Why in the world would you think it’s Mordred? I could very well be talking about Moriaen from Engineering.”

“Moriaen’s hardly an undesirable name.”

“No, but Arthur had specifically assigned him that due to his skin colour,” he reminds her pointedly. "It's hardly a secret."

How Morgause manages to be graceful when she cringes is beyond him. “He thinks he means well.”

“Worse, he thinks it’s humourous.”

She smirks. “Which is why you’re going to have to deal with your problems.”

Harry only sniffs, turning his head away.

“Galahad, congratulations, you’ve managed to waste both our time. You have ten minutes left, and you won’t have another session for at least a week.”

“No? Have you deemed me cured enough?” He pries without much hope.

“No. I’m taking a holiday. Have fun trying to avoid Arthur. I know I will.”

He squints. “You’re the head of a department, you just can’t take a holiday.”

“Watch me,” She challenges, her sharp smile overly-saccharine, “You’re welcome to join me, of course. You’re technically still on medical leave.”

Keeping his face blank doesn’t stop the preposterous churning sensation in his stomach.

Morgause rolls her eyes, perceptive as always. “You feel as though you’re committing infidelity when you’re technically not in a relationship. You are in deep, deep trouble, Galahad.”

“I’m working on it,” He mutters.

“It’s a serious offer. A château in the south of France. You could work on your tan. You’re looking awfully pale lately.”

Harry frowns. “You’ve mentioned that your husband isn’t fond of France very much.”

“Why in the world do you think I’m going?” Morgause drawls, “Plus, it’s not mine. It’s owned by a friend--Well, ex-patient. From when I worked in prison. White-collar crime still pays, it seems.”

Harry raises his eyebrows.

She purses her lips, unimpressed. “I know what you’re thinking. But no, and no. He’s quite reformed. A banker from Paris, happily involved with a gorgeous, much younger _man_.”

“Is that commonplace?”

“An older man with a younger lover?” Despite her apparent nonchalance, she watches him, keen.

Harry manages to keep his cool exterior. “An ex white-collar criminal patient, casually lending you his château for a holiday.”

Morgause shrugs. “Outside this organisation, I’m very good at making friends.”

“Then why do you stay here?”

She meets his gaze head on. “Why do you, Galahad? Why aren't you with your boy?”

His jaw clenches, and for a moment he thinks of making up an elaborate lie to pull her far away from her conclusion, but he only grinds his teeth, ready for the incoming migraine that will force him to sleep tonight. “I do believe that’s self-explanatory.”

There's a snort that catches him off-guard. “Of all the men that actually feel guilty about age difference. Andrew Denbigh is at least twenty-one.”

He lets the silence overtake the room, and he regrets it when he finally speaks. “It’s not Andrew Denbigh.”

_He’s far from twenty-one._

Harry looks at the floor.

_And I miss him terribly._

Such an admission, even in the privacy of his own mind, is sickening and pathetic. In a way, he begins to feel a type of anger. Harry’s always known he’s had flaws, and despite his constant effort to better himself, he didn’t mind them much. They were tolerable, smoothly assessed, hardly noteworthy.

But this?

This is far out the realm of comprehension. He’s prided himself in being aware, not only of his surroundings but of himself, he’s prided himself in being in control, he’s prided himself in being not so easily attached.

Harry didn’t even know how it, how utterly _ruined_ he has been.

And despite saying nothing about the thoughts that plague him, Morgause is hushed and almost sympathetic in her quiet tone.

“The offer stands, Galahad. You know where to contact me if you change your mind.”

He finally looks at her. “Is that wise?”

“Professionally speaking?” She smiles. “...No.”

Harry huffs.

 

\--

 

“Hey, does anyone know Janine’s number?” Eggsy asks all of a sudden.

Ryan shakes his head, but Jamal watches him carefully. “Why?”

“...For reasons...”

“Oi,” Ryan begins, “Aren’t you cozy with Yvonne Jansen?”

“Yeah, but--Just gimme,” He demands, clicking his tongue.

Jamal carefully gives him the information, but not without a warning. “I don’t know what you’re about to do, but Janine’s a nice girl, Gaz. You mess with her, I swear--”

“I ain’t,” Eggsy insists, busily typing her number into his old arse Nokia, “Who do you think I am? I just need to take someone to Alicia Longman’s birthday party. For reasons.”

Ryan guffaws, “Mate, I’m right here!”

“I need a girl, yeah? I ain’t no poof, Ry--”

Bewildered, his friends recoil, staring at him oddly.

“I didn’t say you were, though?”

“What’s up with you lately, Gaz?” Jamal asks, slow.

“Tsk. Just--” He huffs, rubbing his face in frustration. “Look, I’m sorry if I’m a bit off--I’m just really stressed about lots of things--My mum thinks she’s being subtle about this secret relationship thing, Yvonne’s hounding my arse, and--”

“Wait, was that supposed to be a secret relationship?” Ryan makes a face.

“I guess,” Eggsy tries to be understanding despite the anger threatening to rise up again. “Makes sense though, with what happened with Dean and all, she might think it’s too fast to tell. Especially me.”

Jamal nods, taking it in, but Ryan looks uncomfortable. “Well, _technically_...it is.”

“Oi,” Jamal scolds, “None of your business, Ry. Leave her alone.”

Suddenly, Ryan snorts, “Really? This coming from the bloke who has a crush on his mum?”

Jamal sputters and Eggsy turns to him, wide-eyed.

“Wot.”

“No--that’s not--” Jamal stops, raising a hand and taking a moment to seemingly collect himself, “I made a comment, and then he,” He shoots a heated glare at Ryan, “Took it completely out of--”

“He said she was hot, Gaz,” Ryan nods, solemn.

“No, I said she was fuckin’ beautiful there’s a difference, aight?” Jamal vehemently corrects him and Eggsy stares. Could this be the reason why Jamal’s been distant lately? He was always excusing himself from coming over Eggsy’s place saying he was busy with his apprenticeship if not his studies, but--was he feeling guilty or awkward? Was that it?

Holy shit. Eggsy was so deep in his own world for the past few weeks that he didn’t just _not_ realise that bodies were suspiciously dropping, he hasn’t even considered that his own friend might just have a crush on his mum.

Jamal raises his hands. “That didn’t sound right. I _meant_ that, you know, in a general way.”

“Mate--Jamal,” Eggsy begins, painfully slow, but he immediately gets cut off.

“No, lemme explain, I need to explain, I don’t want you to get the wrong idea, you’re one of my best mates--”

Ryan snorts, and he gets a scathing glare. Ryan takes the chance to leave. “You know, I think Chelsea’s callin’ me over, I’mma go now. Have fun.”

“I’m gonna kill you, Ry-- _Eggsy_ , I was pissed outta my mind, and it was just an innocent statement of...opinion, nothing more than that, I swear, I--”

Eggsy puts his hands on Jamal’s shoulders, stopping his attempts.

“Jamal,” Eggsy starts again, looking into his eyes, “...Seduce my mum.”

There’s a moment of silence before Jamal smacks Eggsy’s hands, looking almost disgusted. “What’s wrong with you?”

“Lots of things,” Eggsy admits. Because yeah, that’s fucked up. That was his first reaction, that’s how far gone he is. These past few days, he thought he was doing okay in slowly trying to get over the whole thing, but clearly he’s fucking lying to himself.

“Look, Gaz,” Jamal begins, serious. “I really don’t have a crush on your mum.”

Narrowing his eyes, Eggsy observes him carefully. “You said my mum was beautiful, mate.”

Jamal huffs. “That’s ‘cos she is. It don’t gotta mean nothing. And what’s so bad about this Mr. Hart, anyway? Despite all odds, he seems like an okay bloke.”

Eggsy grinds his teeth. “First of all, most of the times you’ve seen my mum, she’s either come back from work, tired and all messy, or barely alive, having just woke up. How would you think that’s beautiful? When she does put on make-up, it’s the shitty kind--”

Immediately defensive, Jamal raises a hand. “Okay, _first off_ , all that don’t mean she ain’t beautiful. She works hard, your mum. I really appreciate that--”

“I do too!” Eggsy announces, embarrassed.

“Okay, but so what if she’s tired and messy? She’s still beautiful? Like, I can’t explain it, but--” Jamal squints at the far wall, clearly struggling.

“Mate, this really ain’t a good argument for not having a crush on my mum.”

Jamal rolls his eyes. “I like your mum, as a person. I admire her. It don’t gotta mean that it’s...you know. And I ain’t pervin’ on her either, Gaz, mate, I swear on my life. I just want her to have good things and be happy. That’s all.”

“You...want her to have good things and be happy,” Eggsy repeats, tone flat.

Rubbing his face in clear frustration, Jamal sighs. “Look, Gaz, mate, I’m pretty sure you do the same thing when you pass by a fucking dog on the street. Your eyes even light up and everything.”

“Oi, my mum ain’t a dog.”

“No, she ain’t. She’s a hardworking woman who deserves nice things.”

That much is true, Eggsy knows. He chews at the inside of his cheek, trying to make sense of it all. Unable to resist, he presses on, “But you think she looks nice even when she’s messed up and tired and everything?”

Would Harry think the same? Does he _already_ think the same?

Jamal mumbles, “Doesn’t mean I’m in love with her or anything, damn.”

Nodding slow, Eggsy’s about to let it go--That is, until the memories of Harry suddenly strike. It all happens too fast, the flashes of images and thoughts, unstoppable: Several instances of Harry coming home from work, clearly exhausted, but still somehow managing a smile as he greets Eggsy--

It’s the most fucking beautiful thing in the world.

His breath catches in his throat, and Eggsy forgets how to function at the pain that claws at his insides.

“...Gaz?”

Eggsy immediately covers his face, huffing out a laugh. It somehow sounds thick and hollow at the same time, even to his own ears. “M’fine. I’m good, mate. I’m great. I’m fuckin’ ace, me.”

“...Hey, you sure?”

“Yeah. I need to make a phone call.”

After the initial questions and the wishy-washy resistance, it surprisingly doesn’t take much to convince Janine to pretend to have been sort-of dating Eggsy for the past few weeks. He kinda feels bad about it. Just like Jamal said, Janine’s pretty nice. She works hard, she’s smart, and she’s not that pretty, but Eggsy doesn’t really care. They’ve been seen studying before, that should be enough of an alibi.

Yvonne hasn’t been nagging him _too_ much exactly, but he knows she’s gonna be asking lots and lots of questions when the time comes. Maybe he’s overthinking it, but he needs to be prepared for that shit before he goes to Alicia Longman’s birthday party.

 

\--

 

Harry’s awakened by a series of slight vibrations and he wants to suffocate against his pillows. The migraine still hasn’t eased up for the past few hours that he’s actually fallen asleep for.

 

**29\. 07. 2007 - M. Unwin:**

_My son’s being weird??_

**29\. 07. 2007 - M. Unwin:**

_I’m sorry if this is weird but i worry?_

**29.**   **07\. 2007 - M. Unwin:**

It’s probably nothing nevrmnd

 

He doesn’t know how many minutes have passed until the ringing in his ears has stopped and Michelle has picked up.

“ _I said nevermind_ ,” She mumbles, evidently tired.

Harry doesn’t know what the bloody hell he’s doing.

“Tell me what’s wrong,” He hears himself say, gruff. “Define ‘weird’.”

“ _Well, he’s--different._ ”

“Is he in danger?”

“ _...No. I don’t think so. I’m sorry, this is odd--Why’d the bloody hell did you call?_ ”

“Couldn’t sleep,” He answers automatically. “Different how?”

“ _Just...I dunno. Doesn’t feel right, I just--If you’d see, you’d know, but maybe I’m just--He’s moody. And not just the teenage kind. He either wakes up past mid-day or at arse o’clock. He either spends his full day out or cooped up in his room, there’s no in-between..._ ”

“Do you believe it might be something that will simply pass?” Harry murmurs without much hope.

“ _I wish,”_ Michelle sighs. “ _I was a bit worried about the scruff too, but then he shaved it off--It’s fine. I’ll deal with it on my own, it ain’t your problem, Hart. Thanks._ ”

She’s clearly about to hang up and he abruptly finds himself blurting out, “Do you like coffee?”

“. _..We’ve been meeting at a café,_ ” Michelle begins, slow.

Harry bites down on his tongue. “Yes, but we’ve been mostly drinking tea,” He hastily excuses before moving on, “Do you have a coffee machine? Would you--would you like one? I’m getting rid of mine.”

 

\--

 

Eggsy’s near the estate when he glances at his old Nokia. The time reads five-twenty. Slowly but surely, the sky is changing colours and sunrise is almost here. With that in mind, Eggsy thinks he could probably go another lap around and back to Primrose Hill Park, close to where the posh fucks live. Not that he was casing out the area to rob. But it’s a familiar routine even though he hasn’t been doing anymore and it’s almost comforting in a way.

He doesn’t like sleeping anymore. Well--in theory, he does. But he puts it off. He doesn’t want to dream. So what happens is that he ends up dozing off eventually, late in the morning, waking up past noon.

He’s been pulling all-nighters and going on a run when his mum’s too deep asleep to notice him sneaking out. Lately, Eggsy’s been spending time catching up on the physical stuff if he’s not moping in his room or hanging out with his mates. Even then, it’s not enough. He’s only biding time until he starts a fight, he knows it. He misses boxing. He misses causing hurt and being hit when he’s not careful, when he’s not paying attention. It’s a lesson he’s forgotten. He misses swimming. He misses sinking into the bottom of the pool and holding his breath like he’s trying not to drown. It’s the same overwhelming burn in his lungs anyway.

It’s cold as fuck with his thin ratty sweats, but that’s why he’s gotta keep moving.

His mum’s schedule is always changeable, but he knows that she should be gone by seven-thirty. It’s not that he’s avoiding her or anything. Not really.

Not entirely, at least.

He does his best not to be angry. But somehow, it seems like the more he tries, the more he fails at it.

It’s sort of weird how he looks forward to the cold shower he’s about to suffer when he gets home, maybe that’ll help him. It’s seven thirty-one by the time he gets through the front door, and he almost hates how warm the interior is before being baffled at the fact. Why the fuck is their flat warm?

If his mum has gone to work, that shit should be off, ‘cos Eggsy’d rather not waste money. Especially not on himself.

The adrenaline from his exercise still hasn’t settled and the pulse still resounding in his ears doesn’t help at all. He scowls as he makes his way past the living area and--

From the kitchen, Harry and his mum immediately whip their heads to look at him.

Eggsy freezes, losing his breath in one go.

“Well,” His mum starts, blindly smacking Harry’s suited arm with the back of her hand, “You better teach him how it works, I’m late for my job already.” She moves to leave but she glances back at Harry, and they share this _look_.

Harry nods, murmuring, “Take a cab.”

At the words, the curls of unadulterated jealousy makes Eggsy want to die. And it’s pathetic. It’s pathetic because-- _You used to say that to me. I thought it was only for me._

His mum glares daggers at Harry before ruffling Eggsy’s hair as she passes him by. Eggsy fucking _flinches_. But she pretends not to notice and he doesn’t know whether or not to appreciate that.

A few seconds after the door has shut, they’re still only staring at each other.

There’s an insistent irritating part of Eggsy, screaming, _I miss you, I miss you, I miss you._

He squashes it down.

“What.” He utters, devoid of any emotion.

Harry shifts, turning to reveal and gesture at a familiar machine.

“I was getting rid of the coffee-maker and the fresh coffee beans I had in the pantry,” Harry begins, diplomatic.

“...You,” Eggsy states, flat, “You’re getting rid of--you getting a new one?”

“No,” Harry shakes his head, and there’s something a little sad about it. Eggsy hates how it affects him.

“You’re quitting coffee?” He can’t help but check, testy.

“...Yes.”

Eggsy nods slowly. “...So now you’re... _poisoning_ my flat with it?”

Harry slightly startles at that.”Your mother likes coffee--” He backtracks, like he knows he’s said something wrong, “You said you were used to--”

Clenching his fists, Eggsy turns away, heading for the bathroom.

There’s a long-suffering sigh. “Eggsy, we need to talk.”

Resolute in his destination, Eggsy forces himself to think about his options for the day, phasing Harry out of his senses. Jamal has an apprenticeship, Ryan’s probably gonna spend it with Chelsea, Yvonne would be his last resort, but he still needs to set up base with Janine and the lies they're gonna tell.

Shit. Is she even a good liar? Fuck.

“Eggsy,” Harry somehow manages to block the door before Eggsy even gets there. Those damn long fucking _legs--_

Teeth gnashing, Eggsy unthinkingly threatens, “I swear to you, Mr. Hart, I’m gonna start taking my clothes off right here if you don’t fucking move.”

Startled and stricken is the expression on Harry’s face before he belatedly moves to the side, and Eggsy takes the chance to disappear to the loo.

Of course, once he realises what he’s said, he would be embarrassed, but he holds on to the anger and lets it grow. Also, honestly, what the fuck? What’s wrong with Eggsy being naked? He’s not fucking hideous.

Is he?

Eggsy can’t even huff out his frustration or breathe a sigh of relief because first of all, Harry would hear it. Thin walls.

Second, being in a whole other room doesn’t even stop Harry from talking through the damn door. “Eggsy, don’t be ridiculous. I’m not dating your mother, nor do I have any intention to.”

Shaking his head, he rolls his eyes to the ceiling, trying to keep his composure despite his quickening pulse. “It’s easier for you to lie through the door, huh? ‘I’m not interested your mum’, says the bastard who brought over his coffee machine at arse o’clock."

“Eggsy--”

“--And what? It took you that long to make your excuses?" In a fit of rage, Eggsy yanks the door open to find Harry right there, Harry who immediately flinches and takes a step back.

“Fuck you. Fuck you for thinking you could lie to me," Eggsy spits, “You do that a lot, you know? And it’s my fault, ‘cos I fuckin’ let you.” It even catches him off-guard, the bitter broken laughter that escapes him and tapers off. “Why are you _always_ lying to me?”

In the pained silence, Harry only watches him before starting to speak, forcibly calm. “It is not what it _seems--_ ”

“You could have told me. You could have told me from the beginning that’s what you were after. You didn’t have to do what you did, you didn’t have to pretend to be all nice, like you fucking cared about _me_ ,” He bursts out. “Hell, if you was honest, maybe I coulda helped you out even,” Eggsy croaks despite his anger, and he doesn’t know if he’s lying. He doesn’t know.

And he hates that Harry always needs a few fucking seconds to speak, like he’s trying to think of what to say, like he’s _careful_ , careful because he’s about to lie. Eggsy can’t trust a word he fucking says. Eggsy can’t trust anything anymore.

“Fuck you,” Eggsy beats him to it, “I’d ask you to stay away, but I’m pretty sure that’s not gonna happen any time soon with you hanging around my mum, thinking you’re being subtle about your fucking _‘meetings’_ ,” He hisses. “You know what? Go home, Hart. You look like shit,” He sneers, “Sleep for ten fucking years.”

At last, there’s a change in Harry’s expression. There’s the subtle clench of his jaw and the brief flash of something in his eyes that’s too fast for Eggsy to pin down. But it looked like anger. Eggsy scoffs. Of all the things that could piss him off, it’s that?

“What? Has no one told you that you look like shit?” Eggsy taunts.

“As a matter of fact, someone already has,” Harry replies, cool and articulated, “I’m aware I look like _shit_ , Eggsy. _Thank you._ ”

It’s almost as if he’s said it like it’s Eggsy’s fault. Isn’t _that_ a laugh? Well, good. Fucking great.

He grins, sharp and acidic. “Consider letting the door hit you on the way out.”

 

\--

 

Harry goes home, resolutely ignoring the emptiness that greets him. Everything is as should be.

There is nothing wrong with how things are. This is how it was before he met Eggsy.

Life is merely setting back to its proper format.

For the first time in a few days, he pours himself a drink and passes by his vinyl collection. He doesn’t know what the bloody hell they are, maybe it’s time to start figuring them out. Running his fingers by, he blindly picks one out in random before putting it on. The instrumentals fade [in](https://drive.google.com/file/d/0B6aF7_1BmgYpeUdPc1puYkZIdGM/view) and he settles on the sofa, opening a book to read and taking a modest sip of alcohol.

Everything is fine.

Harry shifts in his seat, accidentally glancing at the space next to him.

Since when had he ever thought to normally sit at the sides of his own sofa instead of wherever he pleases? Since when does he actually even sit on his own damn sofa? If not sleeping in his bedroom, he works at his home office. That’s all he remembers doing in his house before that boy ever came along.

Moving slightly to occupy more space, he resolutely looks back to the words on the page, taking a gulp of his vintage bourbon. It burns down his throat and he immediately regrets it--The way he knew he’d regret waiting to clear this whole misunderstanding.

The vocals come on and Harry thinks nothing of it, letting it fade in the background.

Eggsy was volatile in his anger, insistent and presumptuous. Harry could barely get a word in. He had thought it was better to let time pass, hoping it would eventually let the emotions settle enough to allow a civil conversation. At least that’s what he told himself.

Clearly, that didn’t turn out the way it was supposed to. Why is it never easy when it comes to that boy?

Grinding his teeth, he realises he’s been reading the same sentence for the past thirty seconds. And that’s when the lyrics register to him.

_‘~~~I’ll be lonely without you...so please believe me, my heart is in your hand~~~’_

Harry gives in to scowling and rubs at his temples, hiding his face from no one in particular as the song goes on. Why does this always happen? Why can’t he be in peace?

Abruptly, disgust and anger collide to mix in a heavy swell that leads him to fling his book to the side as he stands, making his way to his record player to forcibly rip out the vinyl. Clenching his hand around the barely finished glass of bourbon, he suddenly hurls it across the room.

Even its shattering isn’t enough to alleviate the agony of it all.

He’s not breathing correctly, the injury on his arm throbs, and his hands have these imperceptible tremors.

And Harry is _furious_.

What right does the boy have to ruin him so completely that Harry isn’t even control of his own body?

What right does the boy have to question him? Of course Harry lies. He’s a liar, he’s always been a liar, it’s part of his bloody job.

Kingsman has defined him for so long. A man of unflappable nature, a man in control, a man quick on his feet, in body and in words.

And now Harry is such a fucking _mess_ all because of a bloody _child_.

In the consuming silence, his mobile vibrates, and he immediately considers breaking it in half and throwing it across the room as well. He knows it’s not him.

Harry takes a deep breath.

 

**29\. 07. 2007 - M. Unwin:**

_Wat’s wrong w/him?? Did u figure it out??_

 

For a long time, he stares at the shattered pieces of glass and the alcohol pooling on his living room floor. He waits for his hands to settle before he begins his message.

 

_‘He took a shower. I had to leave.’_

 

As he presses send, he regrets the wording immediately.

 

**29\. 07. 2007 - M. Unwin:**

_Damn. K. Thanks anyway._

 

Harry shakes his head.

 

_‘I’ll try again.’_

 

**29\. 07. 2007 - M. Unwin:**

_U don’t have to. It’s fine. My problem, not urs. U tried._

 

Not enough. And it’s not fine. Harry can’t leave it like this. When Eggsy gets upset, he becomes unpredictable, erratic. Which, what else is expected, he’s a bloody _teenager_. Harry fell for a fucking--

He grinds his teeth, staring at the message.

When Eggsy is upset, he has a way of evading even the most logical course of action, his own well intended plans. Harry can’t risk such a threat to Eggsy’s future. There can’t be any more David Buboli-type characters within his circle to drag him away from his accomplishments.

Harry has to try. Harry has to do better.

 

_‘Would it be unwelcome if I do so again?’_

 

\--

 

Eggsy is angry at Galahad.

It’s ridiculous, he knows, but--

“Don’t you fucking look at me with them sad eyes,” Eggsy warns him through gritted teeth, raising a finger at his Ikea shark. It’s overwhelmingly incredulous how accusing and dejected the damn thing looks. His eyes. His fucking eyes. Eggsy’s gone mad.

He covers the top half of the shark with a pillow, and he feels more guilty than he did before.

“You know I can’t help it, right?” He begins, defensive. “I swear I was gonna be cool. But then he just--he pisses me off. I hate him.” He halfheartedly tries to pet the shark, but it clearly needs some time alone.

Eggsy calls Janine instead.

“You ready?”

“ _What are you gonna do, Unwin? Pop-quiz me?_ ”

“Yvonne’s gonna be ruthless, babe, come on.” He frowns at the noise on the other line. Sorta sounded like a squeak.

“ _You really gonna call me that?_ ”

“What? ‘Babe’? Yeah, sorry. Kinda have to.”

“ _Ugh. Why’d you lie in the first place? I can’t believe I’m gonna lie to her face._ Yvonne Jansen, _Eggsy.”_

He can’t help but smile a little at that. She’s one of the few people in Holland Park who calls him ‘Eggsy’ without sounding patronising. “Hey, think of it as living on the edge. We got this.”

“ _It’s treason. The queen’s gonna walk on me with her high-heels,_ ” She laments. “ _Why’d I agree to this in the first place?_ ”

“‘Cos you’re a good person, and I’m taking advantage. Also, you’re clearly no match for my charm, sorry,” He tells her, half flirting and half in admission.

“ _What do I call you though?_ ” Janine asks, and for a second, he doesn’t know what she’s talking about. “ _Do I use ‘babe’ too? Or what, ‘sweetheart’?_ ” Even over the phone, he can tell she cringes at that the same way he does, but he admires how she braves on, “ _Or ‘honey’? ‘Honeypie’? Gross. ‘Dear’? ‘Darli--_ ”

“Don’t,” Eggsy finds himself cutting her off. “Don’t use that.”

“... _Uhm. Okay.._ ”

He clears his throat, apologetic.

“‘Babe’ is fine.”

 

»

 

On Monday, he takes on Yvonne’s challenge.

Twice.

Eggsy is fucking _wrecked_ after that dance number. Why he gets dragged on to this shit is beyond him, but he appreciates the burn of his muscles. It’s high time he got back into the fast-paced hardcore shit.

“Not bad for the first run.” Yvonne eyes him up and down. “Would’ve been better with your clothes off though--you’re sweating like a pig, Gary.”

“It’s the summer heat,” He sasses back.

The few other people around them chuckle, but Eggsy surprisingly feels good about it.

Later on, they’re in a café nearby and Yvonne’s over-exaggerating in the way she’s sucking down the straw on her smoothie. Eggsy retaliates the same way and she snorts. “Okay, real talk. Did you enjoy it?”

Eggsy sniffs, looking around, stalling.

To be honest? Yeah, he did. For a moment he forgot his shitty situation, too focused on getting the movements right, losing himself in it. He thought he’d need to turn to boxing, but this isn’t too bad. This isn’t too bad at all. It has elements similar to gymnastics. He doesn’t know why he he hasn’t considered this before.

Well, he knows why. He doesn’t want to look stupid. But still--

“Is that a yes?” Yvonne coaxes.

He rolls his eyes. “What’s it to you?”

“You can come by anytime you like,” She offers grandly.

He raises an eyebrow. “What’s the catch? Despite the stupid pineapple name, I can still tell it’s a bit posh.”

“Everything’s a bit posh to you,” She huffs, and waggles her eyebrows. “Maybe I just wanna watch you move, that’s all. No catch. Plus, I can’t be there everyday, you don’t have to worry about me creeping. As I said, you can come by anytime you like.” Yvonne hands over a membership card.

Eggsy stares her down. “I’m not a charity case.”

 _You can’t buy me_ , he doesn’t say, _You can’t pull a Harry Hart on me_.

“Ugh, okay, alright,” She groans. “There _is_ a catch,” She leans in closer, almost secretive, “You seem like a natural. If ever--maybe--I want to enter a dance competition and I need partners, you _might_ have to join me.”

“You have a competition in mind?”

“Not yet. But if the opportunity presents itself…” She shrugs. “I can’t help but destroy everyone else. It’s just a thing. I like winning. Don’t you?”

Eventually, Eggsy grins.

“Deal.”

 

\--

 

Harry doesn’t wear the gloves anymore. He has a deep suspicion that it somehow arouses Mordred, and while the prospect of torturing someone could be considered stress relief, that simply wouldn’t be professional of Harry.

Merlin squints at him, impatient. “...Yes?”

“Any prospective missions for me?” Harry questions, unabashed.

Releasing an exasperated sigh, Merlin turns back to his screens. “I’ve got five. I have to narrow them down.”

“I can take them all.”

“Over my dead body, Galahad,” Merlin mutters. “Get your arse checked in medical. Go.”

Harry goes, sullen.

 

\--

 

Eggsy and Janine spend a few hours with Ryan and Chelsea, taking the chance to observe and mimic the coupley-type things they do in between the smoking and the occasional cans of beer. Going by the coughing, Janine clearly doesn’t smoke and Eggsy takes it away from her with a chiding look and a wry smile. She tried, it’s kinda cute. She gets points for effort. But she shouldn’t start smoking if she hasn’t. Some dangerous shit.

Eggsy doesn’t mind dying early, so he can be a hypocrite about it.

At first, he constantly asks for permission when he goes to hold her hand or other touchy-feely physical shit, but they get into the motions eventually and she tells him to stop asking. He ignores how clammy their hands are.

After that though, Eggsy decides to bring them all home. Jamal’s apprenticeship is much closer to Eggsy’s place and they can just meet there and hang out after his shift ends.

With an arm around Janine’s shoulder, Eggsy laughs and laughs at Ryan’s dumb joke as he walks up the stairs to the flat. His mum shouldn’t be home. Even if she’s gonna get home earlier than expected, she shouldn’t complain that he’s bringing his friends home. She’s been talking non-stop about how dangerous London is lately like it wasn’t always that way, and it’s just weird and annoying.

Although he really wouldn’t mind walking, it costs to mess about outside in general.

“One of you girls slap Ryan’s head for me, yeah?” Eggsy chortles, unlocking the door one-handed. “I’m a bit busy right now.”

Both Chelsea and Janine slap the back of Ryan’s head and Eggsy laughs again as he welcomes them in.

It immediately gets cut off when he spots the figure with their back turned in the kitchen.

Silence follows, abrupt, and Harry turns, mild surprise on his expression.

Eggsy can hear Janine’s quiet gasp beside him, and his hold on her shoulder briefly tightens. He thinks he can see Harry’s eyes zero in on it, but it doesn’t matter. None of it matters.

What matters is that he’s here. _Again_.

Harry speaks first. “Ah, I didn’t think there would be company.”

“So did I,” Eggsy remarks, steely through his teeth.

“Err,” Ryan begins in the background, “Should we...maybe--”

“Mr. Hart?” Janine belatedly questions in awe.

Harry gives her a polite nod of acknowledgement before focusing back on Eggsy. “I wasn’t aware Miss Fernandez was part of your group.”

“None of your business,” Eggsy tells him, cold. “My mum’s at work.”

“Yes. I’m aware.”

Narrowing his eyes at Harry, he lets go of Janine as he takes a few steps toward the kitchen. “How’d you get in? _Hmm_?”

Harry tilts his head slightly, nothing more.

When it finally dawns on him, Eggsy nods slowly, pulling his lower lip far back in and biting down. “She gave you a key.”

Harry looks to the ceiling like he’d rather be anywhere than here, and honestly, Eggsy wishes he was. But he only bursts out into laughter, short and sharp.

“...Eggsy?” Janine begins nervously.

Grinding his teeth in a wide smile, he turns to her, magnanimous. “Just to keep you in the loop, Mr. Hart here is dating my mum,” Eggsy explains, generous and bitter, “He thinks he’s being subtle about it--To be fair, he was. He got me good, that one. But not anymore,” He stares back at Harry.

There’s a knock on the door, and Ryan immediately takes the chance to look through the peephole before letting Jamal in. At Ryan’s cringing face, Jamal stops to take notice of the tension in the room.

Eggsy huffs, hiding his embarrassment at this whole clusterfuck. “Brilliant. I’ve changed my mind,” He walks over to Janine and puts his arm around her shoulder again before announcing to everyone, “Let’s all go out to the pub. Come on, chop-chop.”

Even from where he is, Eggsy manages to urge them on towards the front door. Without looking, he can feel Harry taking a few steps closer and Eggsy takes the chance to hastily get away.

“Eggsy, we need to talk--”

He blindly sends a two-fingered salute behind him as he makes to catch up with his friends. Just when Eggsy thinks he’s safe outside, there’s a light tug at his jacket, hidden from everyone’s view.

“Need I remind everyone that Gary Unwin is underage?” Harry announces in the open hallway to his friends further away, and that--that just sparks the rage back to life next to the humiliation.

He whips around, brash and spiteful as he stares up at Harry’s face. “You ain’t my dad. You got him _killed_ , remember?”

Harry’s lips thin, but he only grits out the same words as if he’s not capable of anything else. “...You’re underage.”

Eggsy laughs, brazen and sharp. “That don’t matter to _anyone--”_

“It _matters_ because it is the _law_ ,” Harry tells him, staring him down, jaw working. “Laws are in place for reasons.”

Scoffing in incredulity and indignation, Eggsy bares his teeth, grinning as he turns over his shoulder to speak to his friends. “You lot go on ahead, I’ll be there. The pub on Baker Street, yeah?”

They’re clearly uncomfortable and look as if they’re about to protest, but they go at Eggsy steely insistence, “I’ll be there.”

“No, you will not,” utters Harry lowly, and Eggsy hates how that sends shivers up his spine. It drives him to quickly turn around, to blatantly challenge him in elaborate articulation.

“Watch me.”

This close, he can see Harry’s nostrils flare, and when Eggsy makes the move to spin around and leave, the next thing he knows is that he’s being dragged by the sleeve of his jacket to the inside of his flat. He doesn’t think he’s ever seen Harry so near to fury and Eggsy fucking _lives_ on it despite the erratic pounding of his heart.

Because the door shuts and he’s slammed back on to it with Harry looming over him and--Eggsy _hisses_.

“What? What are you gonna do to me?” He goads.

“You smell like alcohol and smoke, what the bloody _hell_ have you been doing?”

Eggsy laughs, harsh. “You don’t have the fucking right--you with your pathetic bar full of scotch and whiskies ‘cos you ain’t got no one to drink with,” He tries to dislodge Harry’s hand on his sleeve but the grip is _strong_. And Eggsy _wants_. Eggsy wants him so much, he wants to fucking die.

He hisses at him again, wild in his attempts to get away, “What are you gonna do, huh? Are you gonna _punish_ me, Mr. Hart?” He mocks, straining to lean closer, straining to hurt him and watch, “Hmm? Should I call you daddy? Do you want that? Are you gonna hurt me again, d--?”

Harry flinches--he flinches enough that he lets go of his hold on Eggsy, but then his eyes immediately zero in on his bare wrist, revealed by the physical struggle for the jacket sleeve.

Eggsy can practically see the moment that Harry’s vision turns _red_ , and for a brief second he legitimately feels fear. Harry’s hand is back on Eggsy’s forearm, holding it up so he can examine the bruises closer between them. “Who did this?”

And it’s _that_ , it’s the intensely calm _lethal_ tone of Harry that makes him exhale a shuddering breath.

It’s _weak_ \--it’s weak and he hates it and it makes him angry and cruel.

Staring him in the eye, Eggsy leans in, rough in his emphatic whisper, “...You did.”

He shouldn’t love it. He shouldn’t love how it all happens in slow motion, the loosening of Harry’s hold, the shift in Harry’s expression, the furrowing of his brows, the confusion, the doubt he clearly has for himself and the accusation, and Eggsy can’t help it. He refuses to be the only one hurting, he refuses to be to only one who feels disgusted at himself.

So he raises his other arm, pulling the sleeve back to show him the matching bruise. Eggsy murmurs softly, a parody of coarse tenderness, “...That time on the stairs?”

He shouldn’t love it. The slow dawning realisation, the parting of Harry’s mouth, the shock, and most of all, the impending _devastation_ \--which, to be honest, is more than he thought he’d ever get.

He shouldn’t love it. But he _does_.

Harry flinches again, letting him go, taking a few steps back.

Eggsy can only imagine what he’s thinking.

Harry’s probably scared. He should be. Eggsy could get him in all kinds of trouble. And not just with his mum, he suddenly realises. Eggsy could accuse him of anything. Eggsy could go to the authorities. He could make up lies and prove it by describing the insides of Harry’s house, the little things, the contents of the pantry, the fridge, the guest room. They’d believe him.

Holy shit.

This is _power_.

Eggsy tries to breathe at the weight of it all.

Harry swallows. “I--” He stops, pained, and that’s all it takes for the guilt slam back and consume Eggsy whole. It pisses him off. What reason does he have to look _that_ wrecked about it? Why can’t he let Eggsy enjoy himself for once?

“I--” Harry tries again, but he only stares down at his hands.

Eggsy doesn’t want to feel bad about it, he doesn’t want to have any sympathy. He doesn’t want to hurt, and most of all he doesn’t want to hurt for him.

So he doesn’t look, taking the chance to straighten himself out, adjusting his clothes and settling his breathing.

Eggsy doesn’t look as he leaves him behind, ignoring the ache and the disgrace of what he’s done.

 

\--

 

Harry barely manages to get home, and he has to settle for vomiting in the downstairs toilet.

And he heaves and heaves under Mr. Pickle’s pitiful gaze until he has nothing left to give. Even then, it doesn’t get rid of the churning sensation of his stomach. The acrid taste of bile is persistent on his tongue and in his throat, no matter how many times he brushes his teeth or gargles with mouthwash.

Taking a shower doesn’t rid him of feeling dirty no matter how much he scrubs at his skin until his wretched hands are numb.

Ignoring the existence of Eggsy’s neatly folded blanket nearby, he lays in bed, cold and alone, half-wishing for death to visit at six in the evening.

 

\--

 

“Wow, didn’t know he was dating your mum, Eggs,” Janine remarks.

Eggsy can’t drink anymore, only capable of mindlessly swishing the alcohol in his glass. Belatedly, he replies, mechanical, “Yeah, don’t worry. I didn’t either.”

“...Er, well. This was fun and all, but I need to go home now,” She tells them, apologetic, and Eggsy shakes himself back to reality.

“You want me to take you home, Jan?” He offers.

She shakes her head, smiling gently. “Nah. That’s awful nice though, thanks.”

Chelsea perks up, “I think I’mma go too.”

“Yeah?” Ryan checks.

“It’s alright, you boys stay and enjoy,” Chelsea kisses Ryan on the cheek, and Eggsy looks away.

Ryan has this pouty look on his face and Eggsy waits until the girls are out of the building to actually mutter under his breath. “Why you so needy?”

Jamal raises a hand before an argument can break out. “He’s upset, Ry, he doesn’t mean it.”

Eggsy matches Ryan’s scowl. “Yeah, I _do_. Why the hell are you so needy all the damn time?”

“Oi--”

“Stop,” Jamal warns. “ _Gary Unwin_ , sit. your arse. down.”

Eggsy finds himself doing so, pursing his lips. “Damn, alright. Chill. You sure you don’t wanna seduce my mum? Why you playin’ daddy, bruv?”

There’s a grimace on Jamal’s face. “You’re out of line, mate. Even if I _was_ into your mum, it’s just not meant to be. You didn’t have to treat the man like shit. Unless there’s some other reason why, you’re being unfair when all I’ve seen him do is act all nice despite that. He seems legit, him.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Ryan pipes up.

“Fuck you both. Whose side are you on? And who’s to say it’s not meant to be, Jamal? You didn’t even try.”

“First of all, age difference. It just wouldn’t look good for your mum, alright, even if she _was_ interested.”

“Who cares? Why does it matter? You’re sixteen. And if you both like each other who gives a shit?”

“Eggsy, it matters ‘cos people judge, and this world is _made_ of people. Your mum could be denied a job or a place to rent just ‘cos she’s involved with someone my age. Bloody hell, mate, catch on. Even _you’re_ judging that Mr. Hart bloke ‘cos he and your mum apparently like each other.”

Grinding his teeth, Eggsy shifts in his seat, crossing his arms, mulish in his silence.

“Second, age ain’t just a number. We’d just be too different, not only with experiences but the music taste and the pop culture. Third, I’m barely out of school. Dating only ends up two ways: break-up or commitment. I wouldn’t mess about dating your mum if it ain’t serious. She deserves better than that. But I’m young. Can I even handle that shit? Plus, I only have an apprenticeship, I couldn’t support her with that money--”

“Oi, my mum doesn’t need no support, she can support herself,” Eggsy argues, defensive.

“Yeah, but the point is, she doesn’t have to do it alone. She needs an equal, not someone to bring her down. She also has you to spend on. I ain’t spending my money on your weird habits, mate.”

Eggsy bristles. “I can handle myself.”

“The point is, your mum has been working hard over the years, and she’s been doing it alone. Isn’t it time she had someone to share that weight with?”

Guilt overtakes Eggsy completely. Because it’s true. He’s a selfish piece of shit. Suddenly remembering the look on Harry’s face, it gets worse, and he clenches a hand around the glass of unfinished beer as if that could save him from the mistakes he’s made.

He doesn’t want to feel this way. He doesn’t want to feel sorry. It’s not fair.

Eggsy hates him even more as he helplessly wonders where he is and how he’s doing.

Ryan frowns and tries to break the tension, waggling his eyebrows. “You’ve given this much thought, Jamal--”

“You accused me of shit--Even if it ain’t true, I think it through. I’m a thinker, me,” Jamal cuts him off with a superior glare, and Ryan raises his hands in surrender, shrugging.

Abruptly, Eggsy stands. “I need to use the loo.”

He splashes his face with water and he hates how he wants to check on him and apologise. Remembering that he has the old Nokia from nearly seven years ago, he doesn’t know whether or not to be relieved or to be pissed off. He doesn’t have Harry’s number here. But maybe that’s for the better.

Steeling his resolve, Eggsy walks back out. And that’s when he thinks he catches sight of someone familiar on the bar area. He raises his eyebrows, disbelieving.

Holy shit.

“Lestrade, guv, you lookin’ well-pissed.”

The man groans onto the wooden surface. “Well, don’t sound too excited about it,” He raises his head only to take a gulp of his drink before hiding back down behind his arm.

“What, did your wife cheat on you?” Eggsy chortles, joking. Sort of. Damn, he hopes that’s not true, there’s enough shit in the world.

“That’s not funny,” Lestrade mumbles before freezing and peeking up at him, eyes narrowed. “Wait--Why are you here? Aren’t you underage?”

Shit.

“I’m with my mates,” He huffs out, trying to be charming, “You know how it is, guv.” Eggsy lightly punches him in the arm. Shit. Is that even legal? He hastily tries to distract him. “What are you here for? It’s not for a job is it?” He glances around, suspicious, “Are you undercover?”

Lestrade looks at him oddly. “Do I need to call your handler?”

“Hah, joke’s on you,” Eggsy tells him, sitting on the bar stool next to him. “My mum’s at work, and she tends to keep her mobile off.”

“...I wasn’t talking about your mum,” Lestrade mutters.

Eggsy hesitates, feeling a swell of guilt. Remembering his thoughts earlier about ruining Harry’s life makes his stomach churn. What’s worse is that now he knows it’s an option. It’ll always be there. No matter how much he tries to be nice or be the better person, he knows he’ll eventually dig it back up whenever he’ll get upset.

But then he finds himself perking up. “You know Mr. Hart’s number?”

Lestrade frowns. “You don’t?”

Eggsy suddenly remembers the crumpled up business card under his pillow at home, but he makes the excuse to himself that he probably didn’t remember it correctly.

He deflates, laying his arms on the table and propping his chin on it, mimicking Lestrade’s body language. “What’s wrong with you?”

Shaking his head, Lestrade grimaces. “Not me, it’s--you shouldn’t be out and about. It’s dangerous.”

Torn between disbelief and offence, Eggsy settles for gawking at him with narrowed eyes. “This is _London_. It’s always dangerous, and--” He stops, considering the possibility. “...This about those bodies?”

Lestrade immediately glances around in a panic. Eggsy rolls his eyes and huffs, “People get killed and die all the time. It doesn’t mean they’re connected. Geez, you’re just like my mum. You worried there’s a serial killer or something?”

“He’s not exactly a serial killer he’s--” Lestrade stops in his disgusted rant and Eggsy’s pretty sure that his own eyebrows are at their highest peak, ‘cos _holy shit_ \--

“Fuckin’ christ,” Eggsy leans in, hushed in his whisper, “Are you fuckin’ tellin’ me this is official? For reals?”

“I wasn’t telling you anything.” Lestrade raises his hands, muttering, “I’m drunk--I’m drunk, you shouldn’t listen to a word I say. Go home, for hell’s sake, Gary.”

“Why? Am I really in danger? Victims have been…” Eggsy grits his teeth, trying to remember the news. “...kids, mostly--I’m not a kid though, not really--You sure about this? I heard it was an accident, most of them. Or at least it looked that way. Some overdosed on--” He pauses, reconsidering. “I always thought that was weird, but I thought they just had shite drug addicts for parents.”

“Yeah, exactly, that’s what everyone thought as well,” Lestrade mutters, taking another swig of his drink. “But then my source--wait, what the hell? Gary Unwin, get your arse home. Your mum’s gonna kill me.”

Eggsy squints. Everyone is scared of his mum. That seems to be a _theme_. “Hey, are you really married? Do you wanna date my mum maybe?” He tries, because let’s be real, he’s had like three and a half glasses of alcohol today, it was bound to happen.

Lestrade genuinely looks disturbed. “ _Yes_ , I’m married-- _Go_ or I’mma arrest you.”

Raising a sardonic eyebrow, Eggsy huffs, “On what? Lookin’ at you right now, you probably can’t even find your handcuffs.”

To be fair, that’s because Eggsy’s nicked it like thirty seconds ago. Which is just weird. What kind of copper carries a set when he’s off-duty? Either way, he puts it back, unnoticed, and makes a move to leave anyway because he shouldn’t risk it.

But then something occurs to him, and he can’t just leave it alone. “Wait, you said he wasn’t _exactly_ a serial killer. What _is_ he then? And does that mean you already know who he is?”

The indignance on Lestrade’s face would almost be hilarious if it wasn’t for the topic they were on. “That’s it, I’m sending you home. Straight to your door.”

“But--” Eggsy starts to protest, but he finds the appeal in that. The opportunity is too good to miss out on. He briefly goes back to the booth he and his mates occupied.

“Oi, Gaz, thought you drowned in the loo, we were about to go in for the rescue,” Ryan tells him.

“Sorry,” He shrugs, pointing over his own shoulder. “Met a copper friend of my mum, he gonna send me home.”

“Shit, you in trouble?” Jamal asks.

“Nah, hope not,” He huffs, giving them a reassuring smile on the side of apologetic. “Thanks for everything, for putting up with me and all. We gotta play some football one of these days, yeah?”

“Hear, hear!” Ryan crows.

 

»

 

On the way to the tube station, Eggsy pesters Lestrade non-stop.

“Are you always this…” Lestrade can’t even find a word and just raises his arms in frustration. “How do people deal with you? How does _Hart_ deal with you? That man can’t deal with anything.”

Eggsy grinds his teeth. “He deals with me ‘cos he’s dating my mum. Or trying to anyway. Dunno.”

Lestrade almost trips in his dramatic gaze to the sky. “Oh, thank god.”

Pursing his lips, Eggsy looks at him weird. “What?”

“ _Of course_ he is,” Lestrade talks to himself like some kind of weirdo, “Of course that’s it. I mean, what else could it have been?” He laughs nervously. “Thank god. It all makes sense. Of course.”

Unamused at his antics, Eggsy glares, feeling more shit than he did before.

“People are _dying_ , how are you gonna _fix_ it?” He demands, ruthless, and he almost feels bad at the way the man’s shoulders slump. Almost. “If you have information, if you know who the bastard is, why you getting drunk instead of catching him?”

“It’s never that easy,” Lestrade mutters under his breath. But he’s hammered as fuck, and Eggsy doesn’t feel like telling him that he’s actually talking much louder than he probably thinks he is. “He’s not only clever, he’s got pull.”

Tsk. Rich people are always being problematic, making a fucking mess when they don’t need to.

“If he ain’t a serial killer, what’s he then?” He grumbles. The evening breeze is cool and he doesn’t even know if that’s doing something for his drunk arse. But at least he’s not as pissed as Lestrade who has this look on his face like he’s gonna be sick.

Still, this is why Eggsy shouldn’t drink, because he’s a bit too slow in the realisation that it could be for a different reason entirely. “Shit. Is he a paedophile?”

Lestrade looks even worse like he’s actually gonna barf on the street. Eggsy makes him some space, giving him a wide berth, but that doesn't stop his questions. “Last time I heard, the victim was a sixteen year old girl. That’s not exactly a child though, is it?”

“Point is, he likes them young,” Lestrade mutters, gruff, still looking green.

Fuck. Can you catch nausea? Eggsy feels _sick_.

“Who’s your source? Can you trust them? Is this legit?”

All he gets is more drunken mumbling, but Eggsy thinks he hears ‘a homeless junkie’ somewhere there. Which isn’t really a good witness account. But if Lestrade is taking it seriously enough to go out and get pissed like it’s the end of the world, he must trust his source.

Doesn’t mean other people will. If it’s true, a word of a homeless junkie versus some rich posh bloke is hardly gonna fly.

They take the tube in silence, and Eggsy lets himself stew in it. It’s better than thinking of his own problems.

Across from his seat are sleepy little twin toddlers with their mother, and they seem so sweet and so innocent that soon Eggsy is just plain _angry_. If he had younger siblings, he wouldn’t want someone taking advantage of them like that. The world is shit enough it is, and this sick bastard taking advantage of kids is just unnecessary.

The more he agonises about it, the more it gives him _ideas_.

As they get to the proper floor of his flat, Eggsy grips Lestrade on the shoulder, stopping him in his walk. He waits until the man turns to him before speaking seriously.

“Guv, you wanna catch this piece of shit?”

“Of course I do,” He defends, bewildered, “But our hands are tied--”

“ _\--Bullshit_. You gotta catch him in the act,” Eggsy counters, insistent.

Lestrade stares at him, and the cold air must be doing him good in sobering him up because he ends up gawking at Eggsy, incredulous. “No. You can’t be serious--”

“Undercover, guv. I volunteer--” There’s a hand on his mouth as Lestrade looks around in a panic. There’s no one in the open hall, but Eggsy gets it. He drags him into the flat instead.

“Gary, no--”

“ _Yes--_ ”

“Are you bloody mental? I’m gonna be buried alive.”

“Bury you where? We don’t have a backyard to bury you in, and my mum’s too busy with her job. _C’mon_ ,” Eggsy exasperates, adamant. This is a brilliant idea.

“This is a terrible idea!” Lestrade hisses heatedly.

“Why you talkin’ like that?” Eggsy frowns. “Oh yeah, thin walls. Good job.” He punches him lightly on the shoulder, and that’s all it takes for the man to fall back on the sofa.

Lestrade covers his own face with frustration. “I’m not just talking about your mum, Gary. And I’m plenty terrified of her already.”

Sitting sideways on the sofa, Eggsy watches him for a whole minute in silence, thinking hard.

“So what?” He begins, extremely grave, “You just gonna wait till another body drops, is that it?”

The man only shakes his head, grimacing. But Eggsy doesn’t stop.

“And if you don’t catch him then, are you gonna wait for another one?”

“Look, even if it was legal, involving a civilian in a sting like that, you’re a _minor_.”

“That’s the fucking point! I can play younger too,” Eggsy tells him, confident. He shrugs, careless. “Nobody’s gotta know. That’s perfect though, innit? When he does get caught, my name can’t be in the papers.”

“No, but _my_ name will be, because I’ve been hacked into pieces by Hart and your mum.”

“Fuck off,” He grouses, “Hart only cares ‘cos he guilty he got my dad killed and now he has a thing for my mum. It don’t matter. Come on, I ain’t no grass, you gotta know this Lestrade.”

His outburst gets him a weird look. “He got your father killed?”

Eggsy purses his lips. “Sort of. Back in the military days apparently. It’s like that film, Pearl Harbor, you seen it? The guy’s mate dies, but he ends up liking his girl and he feels all guilty about it--But not really--But then plot twist, the mate’s actually alive, except my dad’s still dead ‘cos this is real life and it ain’t a movie.”

Severe discomfort must be something that happens often to Lestrade because the expression just naturally fits his whole persona.

Eggsy takes pity on him. “It’s a shit film, don’t watch it.”

Lestrade facepalms. “I’m going to go now. And you’ll forget everything about this.”

“Uh-uh,” He disagrees. “If you won’t tell me, I’ll just go out on my own trying to find him.”

“Shit.” Lestrade’s eyes bug out. “What is wrong with you?”

 _Lots of things_ , he doesn’t say. He only shrugs. “People are dying, Lestrade. People my age and younger. That ain’t on.”

“Look, you have good intentions. Be that as it may, it can never be. Mums always know,” Lestrade shakes his head, insistent. “She’s gonna kill me.”

“My mum’s always working,” Eggsy tells him, flat. “And if she’s not, she’s either sleeping, or going out on secret ‘meetings’ a.k.a. dates. Come on,” He tries not to whine. “You’re trying to make for detective right? This’ll look good on your record.”

“Not if I get you killed.”

“You’ve no faith in me. It can all be hush-hush and independent. I can just mess with him, and you come in to break it up and I disappear, too fast for you to catch. But you’ve got your posh paedophile, and that’s all that would matter.”

“You’re very persistent, aren’t you?” The man sighs, long-suffering. “I have to think this through--I can’t believe I just said that. I’m drunk--”

“Alright, sleep it off and then think about it,” Eggsy pats the sofa before standing to leave. “I’ll get you a blanket.”

Lestrade squints, taken aback.

“I’m not sleeping here.”

“Guv, you drunk as fuck. You sleepin’ here,” Eggsy tells him, “I’mma text my mum, don’t worry.”

Later on, it’s hilarious, the look on his mum’s face when she comes home to a snoring Lestrade on the sofa. The man’s profusely apologising by morning and Eggsy’s mum waves it off.

“Thanks for bringing my son home.”

“Err--Well, that’s--Just doing my job,” Lestrade stammers. Eggsy gives him a subtle thumbs up from where he is, chewing on stale bread.

“Actually, I’ve been thinking,” His mum begins. “I’ve never really thanked you for what you’ve done for us. Would you like to come over for dinner some time?”

Eggsy almost fucking chokes. His mum is busy preparing breakfast, so she doesn’t see the badly hidden distress on Lestrade’s face. The man looks to him for help and Eggsy waggles his eyebrows, raising his thumbs up higher.

Unamused, Lestrade starts making polite excuses. “Ah, well, again, I was just doing my job, and really, Hart put me up to it so--”

“Oh, yeah, I’mma have him over too,” His mum assures, and Eggsy scowls, glaring at Lestrade who cringes.

“I’d love to stay for breakfast but I have to change for work.”

“Mmm, bring an apple to go or something,” She distractedly says and Eggsy takes the chance to walk Lestrade out.

“Really, guv? _Really_?” He flatly prompts.

The man only shrugs, awkward, and Eggsy rolls his eyes. “Alright, _anyway_ , so what we talked about last night--”

“Oh for hell’s sake,” Lestrade groans. “I have a hangover.”

“So do I,” Eggsy claims, “But I live.”

“Look, after facing your mother this morning, I couldn’t possibly go around her back like that.”

Eggsy frowns. He gets it really. He does. But still. “Seven million people in London. What are the chances I find him on my own?”

Lestrade looks pleased at that train of thought. Eggsy dashes his hopes. “Maybe I should troll around Smith street.”

“He doesn’t go there,” Lestrade hastily tells him, “He’s not a bloody idiot. I told you, he’s sophisticated.”

“Here’s what you should do,” Eggsy begins, because he’s thought about it last night. It was better than thinking about something else. “We should set it up, reveal all the sad tragic details to my mum--”

“I am _not_ going up to her asking if I can use her son for an undercover operation.”

“You won’t. That’s fine. But what you’re worried about is her finding out. If she ever does, she’ll think back to the sad tragic details and she shouldn’t feel so bad.”

Dubious, Lestrade squints. “I’m pretty sure it doesn’t work that way.”

“Well, if she knew it was for a good cause, if you stress the terrible shit happening to these kids and how there’s a maniac taking advantage of them who thinks he can get away with it just ‘cos he’s rich and powerful, my mum won’t stay mad for _too_ long,” Eggsy insists.

“Do you not understand how emotions work? Are you a sociopath?” Lestrade asks him, stunned. He suddenly turns to the sky, whispering. “Please don’t tell me I have another one to deal with, oh my god.”

“God ain’t gonna help you. He ain’t helping these kids.”

Lestrade stares back at him, conflicted.

 

\--»

 

Harry reports to HQ for a brief on his upcoming mission.

At last.

Unfortunately, he gets intercepted by an assistant who personally delivers a verbal summon from Arthur. That in itself is an extravagant show of power. The man could have easily sent an electronic message.

Harry has slept for thirteen hours straight in absolute misery but he doesn’t know whether or not that’s a good thing.

“Arthur,” Harry greets neutrally once he gets into the office.

The man steeples his fingers, merely watching him before nodding. “Galahad.”

Harry remains standing and quiet.

“The long-term mission--I’ve given you enough time to think it through.”

Pursing his lips, Harry exhales through his nose. “With all due respect, have you seen my work performance lately? Do you really want me to be the agent for this assignment?”

Arthur opens his mouth, but Harry continues on talking. “Speaking of assignments, I’m about to be briefed for one. I was rather proud to be early for once, but I’m here instead. I’d rather not bedevil Merlin any further. The man is already stressed enough, Arthur.”

Narrowing his eyes, Arthur concedes. “When you return from this assignment. We shall talk.”

Harry nods in practiced deference before he leaves.

They both know he’s stalling. That much is clear.

Is it wise? What is really keeping Harry here?

The mere memory of Eggsy’s bruised wrists prompts a nauseating sweep in his stomach. He doesn’t have the right to stay. Harry has hurt him. Despite all odds, Harry has done the one thing he never wanted.

Eggsy is angry and volatile and Harry is unwelcome.

Granted, it’s all due to a misunderstanding. But isn’t this a way out?

Is there really any reason to stay?

“This should be easy,” Merlin tells him, ignoring Harry’s unamused look. “Very, _very_ easy.”

Harry narrows his eyes. But he’ll take what he can get.

Merlin raises a finger in emphasis. “This is _so_ simple, I’m letting a group of techs handle it.”

There isn’t exactly a question, but Merlin seems to be waiting for something and Harry eventually decides to humour him with a nod.

Within seven hours, Harry is cornered by at least a dozen men with the intention of capture.

He takes off his glasses, unwilling to hear the crazed uproar of the techs in Merlin division.

Harry laughs.

 

\--»

 

His mum has just gotten home from work but she frowns at her mobile for the third time.

Eggsy squints through his headache. “What?”

She shakes her head. “Could be nothing.”

Craning his neck, he squints even more.

“Stop doing that or you’ll need glasses,” She huffs. “It’s Hart. He hasn’t replied. I was asking what the best day for dinner was.”

Eggsy drops his act, grinding his teeth. Of course. _She_ has his number.

Because they’ve been doing that. All this time.

And now she’s acting like a teenager about late text messages. Great.

He can’t wait to die undercover.

“Mmm, maybe he’s at work,” Eggsy begins, neutral, ignoring the sick roiling of his stomach.

“True.” She frowns, still worrying.

Which makes Eggsy worry too, remembering the shit he’s done yesterday. For fuck’s sake.

Mulling it over, he interchangeably starts gripping at the bruises on his wrists as an absentminded habit.

Should he go and apologise?

But what for?

He scrunches his nose at the thought.

Like, yeah, alright, he was a little mean about it. But did he lie?

Harry’s probably only upset ‘cos he thinks the chances between him and Eggsy’s mum have been ruined.

He scowls and tries not to think about it anymore when he goes to bed.

He has trouble sleeping more than the usual.

 

»

 

The next day, Eggsy spends at least three hours in Pineapple Studios. He wanted to try a few things out, plus, it’s free, so why shouldn’t he take advantage? Yvonne’s already forced him to do ballet once, and that shit was painful, but he’s determined to get it right because he’s competitive like that. Naturally, he takes another class in street and contemporary dance, which is more of his style. There’s a cool bloke who welcomes him and urges him to come over to the tap dancing class that’s gonna be on in a few minutes, and Eggsy politely finds a way out of that. Instead, he goes for one of the fitness and martial arts sessions.

For some reason, he’s still restless despite being exhausted at the same time. When he goes to finally call it a day, he gets delayed in leaving, chatting up the other people there. It’s not only because they’re interesting and he just happens to be keeping an eye out for suspicious types--It’s because Eggsy likes to believe there’s a whole world outside Harry Hart.

His mobile vibrates, and he has to excuse himself away from the fit bird eyeing him down.

Eggsy stares at his phone, swallowing.

It’s Roxy.

And somehow the buzzing of his phone seems angry and dangerous.

Hesitant and uncharacteristically meek, he answers the call. “....Hello?”

There’s only silence for a few tense seconds before the yelling comes through. “ _Gary bloody Unwin, how dare you not answer you damn messages and calls!_ ”

Eggsy cringes. “I--well. My other mobiles have been lost and I’ve been trying to find them and I forgot to--”

She’s not yelling anymore, but her tone of voice is more terrifying than the last with its underlying quiet steel. “ _Do you know how many times Quinlan has been calling me about it?_ ”

“...No,” He admits, feeling properly chagrined. Sometimes he forgets that some people actually care about him. “M’sorry, Rox.”

“ _Whatever it is,_ fix it,” She commands, before saying quickly, “ _And I’m glad you’re alive and well._ ”

Roxy hangs up immediately.

Ashamed, Eggsy makes his way to the tube less than a minute away. This station doesn’t include the line he needs to get home. He’s supposed to switch in three stops, but he doesn’t get out.

Somehow, he stays until it’s time to exit at Gloucester Road.

Every step is heavy and it feels like he’s fighting with himself, but he ultimately ends up outside Harry’s house. Standing a few feet away, he gazes up at it.

Eggsy swallows at its looming height.

What the bloody fuck? Why is he here?

He scowls at the ground, scuffing his shoddy trainers at the cobblestones. At least the Ducati’s not here anymore, hopefully safe somewhere else.

Eggsy should leave. What would he even say?

The thought of it makes him want to squirm, but he squares his shoulders and walks up to the door. Eggsy stands there for a few seconds, wondering if he should break in or knock. And it feels like déja vu when he eventually raises a hand, hovering on the wood before laying it flat.

He simply spends a few moments there, just like that.

It could be just cold feet, he could be just making excuses--But he swears that Harry isn’t here.

Harry isn’t home, and Eggsy’s stomach is in knots.

 

»»

 

There’s no reason for Eggsy’s heartbeat to be racing as he impatiently waits to get home. He helplessly looks around the tube carriage, trying to keep his mind off it. It’s rush hour and it’s packed in here. Plenty of wanna-be posh banker blokes in unbespoke suits.

Harry could simply be back at work. He wasn’t wearing his sling these last few times that Eggsy’s seen him.

It doesn’t mean anything.

He grips at the pole--for balance, he tells himself.

Harry could just be having another of those ‘appointment’ things. The kind that isn’t a date with his mum, ‘cos she’s definitely at work.

The air is cloying, and Eggsy feels nauseous. It’s like a sardine can in here, the smell of people mixing, bodies packed too close together.

Fuck.

When he finally gets out, he’s torn between running to close the distance or keeping a steady pace to counteract the queasiness.

For a long moment, he only leans back against the door in the silence of his bedroom, trying to settle down. He’s staring at his mattress, and suddenly, Eggsy doesn’t waste any time carelessly pushing it off in one go to find his mobiles.

He hastily turns them on and he ignores the way his hands seem to be shaking--‘cos that ain’t right. Why would that be happening?

Harry doesn’t answer the phone.

Eggsy uses every mobile he has in his disposal. He even tries to find the crumpled business card hidden within one of his pillowcases and saves the number to his oldest Nokia.

“Fucking pick up your damn phone,” He bursts out in frustration against the loudspeakers, gnashing his teeth. Head in his hands, Eggsy stares down at the shitty carpet before closing his eyes and pulling his knees up.

He puts his head between his knees.

Dial tone after dial tone is all he gets and he doesn’t know when he’s made a grab for Galahad, clenching at him tight.

_What the fuck, what the fuck._

Angry, he gives in to leaving a message, barely coherent. “Pick up your damn mobile--what the fuck--Harry. I don’t care if you’re dating my mum, I’m only angry ‘cos you lied,” Eggsy croaks past the thickness in his throat, and he doesn’t know if he’s lying. He probably is, but he doesn’t fucking care. “Pick up. She wants you to come over for dinner. Come over for dinner, Harry.”

He’s fucking mental, that’s what he is. Eggsy can’t even believe the shit that’s coming out of his own mouth. Has he drunk too much these past few days? Is he having alcohol withdrawal already?

Eggsy keeps at his calls for who knows how long, unaware of when he finally passes out on the floor.

 

\--

 

Hazy, Harry blinks past the bright light hanging overhead. He’s not cognisant of exactly when the electrocution has stopped.

At the sensation of blood running down the side of his face, he frowns, slightly slurring in his words. “My apologies, I didn’t quite get that. If you could kindly repeat it?”

The man with the power drill stops, looking rather perplexed in addition to the indignant humiliation. The other man with the short-barrel rifle presses the muzzle against Harry’s bare chest, angled for his heart.

And Harry thinks that maybe, he shouldn’t just leave things the way they are. Not with Eggsy resentful for things that aren’t even true. That would be the easy way out, and like most things with that boy it never really is.

If the boy should ever hate him, it should be for the truth.

Not that Harry would ever tell. But he shouldn’t leave it like this. With a deep resignation, he’s aware that he’ll regret his decision either way. Somewhere inside of himself, he’ll always hate having fallen for a child, and by extension, harbor some irrational hate for the boy who has ruined him thoroughly. Harry knows that the hate will rise up and consume him if he’s provoked past breaking point again.

Despite that, there’s another realisation that he’s been keeping at bay, one he can’t quite deny at this very moment.

Even with the bitter wretched hate, it doesn’t make Harry love him any less.

And that’s the worst part.

The breath he takes is shallow, and he thinks that he shakes with the implications.

Or that could be simply the mediocre torture techniques.

Abruptly, his thoughts are interrupted with the power drill whirring back to life.

Harry huffs, displeased.

Just in time, the man he knows to be in charge of the whole operation enters the room. Despite what Merlin thinks, he does pay attention during briefings.

“Gentlemen, my apologies,” Harry begins. “I’m afraid I can’t stay any longer.”

 

\--

 

Eggsy blinks himself awake, curling up at the migraine that’s letting itself known in pulsating waves. The light is off in his room and it’s getting dark outside already.

An idea strikes him belatedly and then he’s blindly palming around for his old Nokia.

“ _\--Gary, I told you I would think about it,_ ” Lestrade begins, exasperated, but Eggsy doesn’t give a shit.

“Where’s Harry?” He mutters, rough.

“ _...What?_ ”

Eggsy curses. His body is fucking sore. He needs to lay off on the non-stop exercise. Fucking stupid. He can barely move. It doesn’t help that he slept in a weird position, now there’s pins and needles all over like he’s been fucking electrocuted.

Clutching Galahad to his chest one-handed, he manages to turn over on his back. He fights through his muddled thoughts to find some clarity.

“ _Gary? Hey, you alright?_ ”

“Harry Hart, you know where he is?” Eggsy tries not to be embarrassed at the memory earlier. What the fuck was that shit? Goddamn.

“ _What do you need him for?_ ”

A noise escapes Eggsy’s throat before he can stop it. He coughs in an attempt for cover. “My mum, she invited him to dinner--he hasn’t replied.”

Lestrade actually laughs at that. “ _Give it time._ ”

Eggsy scowls. Harry always replies within a certain timeframe. Even if he’s at work, he finds a way.

But then of course, the situation is different now.

Staring at the ceiling, he considers it.

“Yeah,” He relents, mumbling. “...You right.”

The resentment finds its way back in, and he hates himself for caring about Harry. It’s a setback, that’s all it is. A moment of weakness.

He’ll do better.

 

\--

 

Merlin’s cold glare would be intimidating if Harry wasn’t used to it.

“Do you know what you are, even in the face of death and gruesome torture?” Merlin prompts, icy.

Harry only raises his eyebrows, waiting.

“Fucking _pedantic_ , that’s what you are.”

“I was merely doing my job.”

Merlin raises a threatening finger. “You’re job was much, much simpler than what you’ve executed.”

Harry frowns. “I’ve acquired the intel needed, incapacitated not only the cliché group of henchmen, but forced the man in charge out of commission.”

“Exactly,” Merlin stresses, “You were only supposed to get the intel and leave. You were out of line, and _stop taking your glasses off._ That’s Lancelot’s wretched habit.”

Squaring his shoulders, Harry sniffs. “At least I kept it on and recording, what more do you want? I needed his biometrics to access said intel, which, by the way, was _not_ part of the briefing. I had to make a choice.”

With the amount of dignified eye-rolling that Merlin does, it’s almost a wonder how his eyes haven’t fallen out. To be fair, Harry’s eyes are still intact.

“You didn’t have to get tortured for it, there was another way.”

Harry shrugs. “It needed to be done. It’s what I’m trained for. May I go now? Arthur’s still not in the building, is he? He should be gone already.”

“No,” Merlin grinds his teeth as he re-checks the wound dressing. “In addition to an updated MRI, I’m going to have to schedule you for scar removal, this is just preposterous, you literally have holes on your torso.”

“You exaggerate, there’s only three among the old ones. Do stop fussing.”

Merlin shoots him with an unamused look. “How they haven’t hit you on the face full-on is the real mystery.”

“I was polite. I asked nicely.”

“Which must account for the laceration on your scalp. Amazing,” Merlin retorts flatly.

Harry rolls his eyes. “It’s only five stitches.”

“I’m forcing you on a holiday,” Merlin threatens him.

Clearing his throat, Harry shifts slightly in his seat. “Please don’t.”

It’s a careless move. He rarely ever says ‘please’ and means it.

There’s a loaded silence that passes.

On second thought, maybe Harry can take the chance to have a proper holiday. Somewhere far away. Far, far away where he can objectively think things through without any distractions. It would be for the better.

“ _Biometrics_ ,” Merlin changes the subject, insistent, “Going from the audio feed, you had the man incapacitated within a few seconds. The computer system was on the top floor where our signals couldn’t reach. Are you telling me you hauled him all the way up there?”

Brows furrowed, Harry looks at Merlin strangely. “Of course not. I cut the parts I needed.”

Merlin stops. He suddenly gazes up to the ceiling, long-suffering in his groan.

“For fuck’s sake.”

“Why do you always complain?” Harry grouses. “How long have you been here, Merlin?”

“What ever happened to your own personal favourite poison? I’d ask you to blow them up instead, Galahad, but I fear you’d blast at least half of the building, if not the whole of fucking Portugal.”

Narrowing his eyes, Harry complains. “I’m not bloody double-oh seven.”

Merlin’s expression darkens at the mention, but he only mutters on, cursing under his breath as he finishes up. “You still have an extended debriefing set for--”

“Yes, yes,” Harry waves on, “I need to take my leave.”

“I’ll schedule you for a scar removal in a few weeks, yes? Torso area,” Merlin announces, busy with his clipboard. “Anywhere else you can think of?”

Harry very carefully doesn’t change his expression as he shrugs his suit-jacket on and distractedly says no.

 

\--»

 

“Are you ready?” Janine asks, actually sounding enthusiastic.

Good for her. Eggsy doesn’t feel up for anything at all. He could get run over by a bus, he’d probably feel the same way. At least physically.

Dancing is dangerous. It must be done in moderation.

But again, Eggsy’s good at pretending.

“I’m here, ain’t I?” He smirks, holding his hand out.

 

\--

 

Harry doesn’t know why he would bother turning on his mobile. It’s not as if he’s needed anymore.

He waits until he’s far away from HQ to do so, and in a way, he’s stalling. It’s easy to get lost in the bustling crowd of London during this time of day. People are trying to get home.

It’s where Harry should be. But he’s here instead. Home isn’t really home anymore.

He turns on his mobile, and he blinks at the notifications.

 

_17 Missed Calls_

_1 Voicemail_

_5 Unread Messages_

 

There’s the initial sweep of dread before it fades away. That’s because there’s nothing wrong. Not exactly. Eggsy isn’t in any danger.

He reads the messages first.

 

**03\. 08. 2007 - M. Unwin:**

_I’m inviting you and Lestrade over for dinner--A sort of thank you for what you’ve done for me and my son._

**03\. 08. 2007 - M. Unwin:**

_Nothing fancy tho, don’t get ur hopes up. What day would be alright? Is Saturday fine? 20:00?_

**03\. 08. 2007 - Excalibur:**

_The fuck u not answerin ur phone for???_

**03\. 08. 2007 - Excalibur:**

_Don’t listen to ur voicemail i s2g._

**03\. 08. 2007 - Excalibur:**

_Whatever. Idc. Come over if you want im not gonna stop you_

 

Pursing his lips, Harry bizarrely doesn’t know whether to be charmed or sullen. Either way, he’s going to listen to the voicemail. His mobile vibrates before he can get to it.

Upon answering, Harry murmurs. “Are you enjoying the south of France?”

Morgause huffs. “ _Why don’t you find out for yourself?_ ”

Harry watches the world around him go by for a few seconds. People are always heading off somewhere with places to be. They live in their own heads, minding their own business, largely unaware of their surroundings. London is crowded, noisy, smelling of smog and piss, and Harry knows why he’s here.

“I’ve been meaning to call you,” He admits.

“ _...Oh?_ ”

His mouth feels sandpaper dry when he reveals it. “I’m outside St. Pancras International.”

“ _Ah_ ,” There’s a well-concealed surprise there, but she isn’t doing much to cover up the coy line of questioning. “ _Going somewhere nice? Or is it for a business trip?_ ”

“I’ve finished with the business trip. I’ve been recommended a holiday.”

“ _And you’re taking it? My, my,_ ” Morgause teases, but it’s clearly a facade. There’s an underlying professional concern in her tone. “ _Pleasure after business. That’s new._ ” After a few moments of silence, she murmurs quietly, “ _Do you need the address?_ ”

Harry suddenly finds himself restless, twisting his left wrist in circles. “Just in case.”

“ _Alright._ ”

Entering the building, Harry directly aims for the Eurostar ticketing station. He lines up in the queue and takes the chance to check his missed calls. Most of them are from Eggsy, all from his different mobiles. And the guilt plagues at him more than it already has. If Eggsy was calling him this many times, it must have been of importance. Which is a sentiment quite opposite to the text message he had received from him.

As he buys his ticket, he’s overcome with the urge to listen to his voicemail. He presents his passport to the ticketeer instead.

“Marseille Saint Charles, please. The next available train.”

“Business premier, sir?”

“Yes.”

“There’s one transfer stop over Paris.”

“Perfect. How much time?”

“A hundred and ten minutes.”

“Wonderful. Should be enough time to have dinner,” He murmurs absently. As the man enters his information and generates his ticket, Harry gives in to disregarding manners and basic etiquette, listening to his voicemail.

“ _...Pick up your damn mobile--what the fuck--Harry. I don’t care if you’re dating my mum, I’m only angry ‘cos you lied,_ ” Harry’s heart _twists_. There’s a long pause of nothing, and Harry would think it was over if it wasn’t for the way Eggsy’s breathing. Could he be imagining the slight distress? “. _..Pick up. She wants you to come over for dinner. Come over for dinner, Harry._ ”

It’s pitiful, the way those last few words have an effect on him.

“--Sir? That’ll be three hundred pounds.”

Harry finds himself gripping his credit card as he fights with himself to hand it over.

 

\--

 

Alicia’s birthday party is extravagant with its loud music and lights that change colours every few minutes. It’s ridiculous. Or maybe it seems that way because Eggsy doesn’t want to be here. After his pathetic episode yesterday, Eggsy promised himself he wouldn’t drink so much anymore.

But what is _too_ much, exactly?

Janine hugs him from behind and mutters against his shoulder, “That’s your third drink.”

He tries not to cringe. “Thanks for letting me know--”

“Gary! There you are,” Yvonne crows. “I lost you two again. You’re not doing that on purpose are you? Going to a party just to slink away and snog? Very naughty.”

Eggsy feels Janine tensing behind him and he rubs at her arms. “You alright, babe?”

“Mhm, I’mma just go to the loo for a little bit.”

She’s gone before he can even ask. But it’s brilliant. This is a way out--

“What’s wrong with her?” Yvonne wonders, craning her head to watch her leave.

“You intimidate her,” He accuses.

“Why, I can’t possibly help how she feels,” She sighs, fixing her hair before putting her arm around him, leaning in close to whisper in his ear. “You ready?”

Eggsy nods with a confidence he doesn’t feel.

“Fantastic,” She perks up, “Lemme get Alicia.”

He watches her go into the crowd to bring back a partly breathless [Alicia](http://0-q-0.tumblr.com/tagged/alicia-longman), clearly high from the dancing and the whole party at large.

Even with her excessive accessories and really bright clothes, she’s beautiful, Eggsy thinks. Especially when she smiles, genuine and sweet.

His stomach churns. And it’s just as well, considering she stops when she sees him. Yvonne has to push her in front of him, patting Alicia on the shoulder. “Pay tribute to the birthday girl, be nice, alright? I have to go check on things.”

Alicia’s brows furrow at that, and Eggsy worries that she doesn’t know what Yvonne has planned. He clears his throat, and she smiles, awkward.

“Thank you for coming, I didn’t think you would.”

Eggsy shouldn’t have started up with the third glass. He pushes it away, giving her his full attention. It’s the gentlemanly thing to do, isn’t it?

“Well, I’m here now. So…” He shrugs, smiling.

She looks down, and she genuinely seems shy. Eggsy manages not to react when Alicia has to lean in to talk to him because the music's too loud, “Look, I don’t know what Yvonne’s said, but…” She glances around, cautious and embarrassed as she reveals it, “I’m a virgin.”

Shit.

Shitshitshit.

They’re all gonna die tonight.

“That’s okay,” Eggsy finds himself saying. Why is the fuck is _he_ getting embarrassed?

“Yeah?” She watches him, biting her lip, and he can’t help but glance down at it. She has nice lips. Pink and shiny with lipgloss. He wonders what it would taste like. Fucking teenage hormones are to blame when he finds himself swaying closer. He doesn’t visibly flinch at the smell of fucking cherry.

Cherry lipgloss, great. Not kissing her anytime soon if he can help it. He’s already been nauseous all day.

That shouldn’t be a relief.

He swallows. “We don’t have to do anything that we don’t want to do.”

Alicia seems genuinely pleased at that. Maybe even charmed. And Eggsy thinks, what the hell, it’s her birthday. He should make it good for her.

She’s not mean at all when she asks him, “Why are you here? I mean, you didn’t exactly say yes to prom.”

Eggsy clutches at his glass, but he’s doesn’t drink. “I was--I have a girlfriend.”

“Oh,” Her eyes are wide, innocent and shocked, “Oh gosh. Why are you here then? Did Yvonne--”

“Nah,” He hastily says, and lies, “We all agreed.”

She glances over his shoulder. “Will she be joining?”

Sure enough, Janine is behind him, profusely apologising before seemingly realising who’s in front of them. “Sorry, Eggsy, I--Hey, hi, Alicia! Happy birthday.”

“Thank you very much, that’s a nice necklace,” Alicia comments, genuine. Janine clearly gets flustered about it.

“Do you want it? I didn’t get you a gift, I’m sorry--”

“Oh, no, that’s quite alright,” She assures her, lightly touching her arm. “I hope you enjoy the party.”

“Ah, well, about that,” Janine turns to Eggsy. “I’m sorry. I have to go.”

“Oh,” Shit, he doesn’t know what to do. “Do you want me to--”

“Nah, Jamal’s picking me up.”

Eggsy gawks. “Jamal?”

“Yeah, he’s already outside. Sorry. Thanks,” Janine addresses both of them before kissing Eggsy on the cheek and leaving. “Enjoy yourselves.”

Huh. That’s something to think about. Jamal and Janine, he means. Not--

Alicia’s clearly trying not to ask questions, holding back a smile.

“Err,” Eggsy begins.

She shakes her head, laughing softly. “No need to explain. But wow. That’s...progressive.”

He doesn’t want it to be awkward, but Eggsy has the need to fill the silence between them and he blurts out, “Nice dress. Colours, I mean.” He cringes, and she laughs. Despite all the odds, he smiles. “Seems more like Yvonne’s colours though. Pink and orange.”

All of a sudden, Yvonne’s behind Alicia, an arm around her shoulder. “Good eye, Unwin. It is indeed mine,” She preens. “And before you can insult my wardrobe choices, I’ll have you know it’s what the birthday girl asked for.”

Raising his eyebrows, Eggsy scoffs. “You’re loaded as hell, Yev, and you give your best friend your own clothes for her birthday?”

Yvonne huffs in indignance and Alicia blindly pats her on the cheek.

“Are we ready to go?” Yvonne asks them.

Eggsy averts his gaze.

 

\--

 

Even as Harry’s train nears Paris, all he can focus on is the phrase repeating in his head.

_‘Come over for dinner, Harry’_

It’s torture, how his mind conjures up several different scenarios in which Eggsy says those words before he manages to shut those thoughts down. When he forgets and lets himself relax, the process repeats.

By the time he’s in Paris, eating alone for dinner, he’s still victim to the vicious cycle. He stares at the empty chair across from him.

Paris Gare de Lyon is the station he needs to be in to change trains. It’s a few hundred meters away outside the restaurant, and he ignores it in favour for heading back to Paris Gare du Nord, waiting for the next train back to London by shopping around.

He says goodbye to the prospect of carefree days under the sun, the opportunity of freedom--or at least the illusion of it. He says goodbye to the chance of regaining his sanity.

 

\--

 

Eggsy’s heart is racing as he turns away from Alicia’s advances again to kiss her on the cheek instead. She actually giggles at that, and he doesn’t know whether to be relieved or annoyed. He starts kissing down her neck and she gasps.

Except for the lipgloss, Alicia Longman smells nice. She does. She smells fucking great.

But it’s not--she’s not--

Grinding his teeth, he’s determined to see this through. “What do you want?” He asks.

“I don’t know. Just--” She sighs, clutching at his jacket. “Whatever you want.”

“Yeah?” He croaks, “Tell me if I do something you don’t like.”

She nods against him, and he tries not to panic as he palms up to touch her tits through the dress.

“Is this alright?” He roughly asks against her neck.

“Mhm,” She nods again, enthusiastic.

 _Simply pay attention to how your partner reacts_ , The words suddenly repeat themselves in his head. _Go from there._

And Eggsy shudders. But he does exactly that.

Isn’t this what Harry would do?

Eggsy runs his hands down her waist. He flinches when the door opens.

Yvonne huffs, mildly piqued. “Started without me, you heathens.”

Alicia laughs, abashed.

Somehow Yvonne only pets Eggsy’s head before settling herself behind Alicia.

Which. Okay. That works for Eggsy.

Soon enough Eggsy’s hands are wandering again, and he has Alicia _shaking_ , and it feels good. It feels good to know you can do this to someone. Harry would probably say the same, wouldn’t he?

Fucking hell, Eggsy hates him, and he hates himself for thinking about him, but he can’t help it, he can’t. Not right now, not having drunk two and a half pints of beer alongside the pressure and the anxiety of what he’s doing.

God, this is why he hasn’t wanked off at all, even with the supposed freedom of his flat when he’s home alone--because he fucking _knew_ , no matter how hard he would try, he’d eventually end up thinking of _him_. Eggsy has to get over him first, he’s not gonna fucking come thinking of Harry Hart.

But then--Harry would probably focus on the other person first--let them come first, because he’s a gentleman. Right?

“May I?” He asks against her skin as his hands lightly go up her thighs, hitching her dress up.

Alicia frantically nods, but he can tell she’s nervous. And so is he, he doesn’t want to fuck this up. He wants it to be good for her. So pulls her underwear down and starts with one finger despite how wet she already is, and he tries not to think too much about it or how weird it feels.

It isn’t long before she’s responding enthusiastically with Yvonne muttering assurances into her ear. At Alicia’s nod, Yvonne tells Eggsy to add another.

As much as Eggsy has dreamed about Harry’s strong hands, as much as it turns him on when Harry looms over him and pushes him _hard_ against walls or doors--that can’t be reality, can it?

Harry would be kind, he thinks. Because it’s Eggsy’s first time, and he’d know it. Harry would be gentle. At least at first. Until Eggsy begs for more and do whatever it takes to provoke him.

“Fuck,” Alicia pants, riding his fingers hard. Yvonne huffs against her neck, looking oddly proud. She moves her gaze to Eggsy, one hand leaving Alicia’s hips to palms at his hard dick through his jeans, making him _hiss_.

“Isn’t it about time you take your clothes off, Gary?” Yvonne murmurs.

Eggsy pulls the hem of Alicia’s dress down instead and mouths at her tits, making her moan. It’s kinda cute how she immediately covers her mouth, embarrassed.

Fingering takes a whole lot of effort than he originally thought it would. With his body is still sore from all that exercise and dancing, he’s pretty sure he can’t fuck for the life of him if he tried. Well, he could. If he wanted to. His whole arm is sore just from fingering her and he hasn’t even finished her off yet.

Which makes him try harder, makes him wonder. What if Eggsy was fingering himself? Other blokes do it, so there must be something pleasurable about it. How long would it take to make himself come?

At the next thought that strikes, Eggsy is left panting against Alicia’s chest.

How long would it take for _Harry_ to make him come?

“Fuck,” He mutters, grinding against Yvonne’s hand and becoming particularly rough in the next few thrusts of his fingers.

Alicia shudders, breaths escalating, and Yvonne’s other hand moves Eggsy’s free hand to press at Alicia’s clit--which he completely forgot about, embarrassingly enough, but it doesn’t matter because Alicia chokes on a whine, coming around Eggsy’s fingers.

“Shhh,” Yvonne croons softly as Alicia comes down from the high, twitching and exhausted. She murmurs against her temple, whispering things far too low for Eggsy to hear.

Eggsy pulls his fingers out, trying not to make a face at the mess. He wants to wipe it at the duvet but he doesn’t know if that’s polite--Yvonne guides his hand, sucking his fingers in, and holy shit--

_What the fuck what the fuck._

That’s really nasty but it’s really hot and he’s really confused. Alicia’s hazy eyes go round, and a squeak escapes her throat before hiding further against Yvonne’s neck, whining in embarrassment.

“Oh god, that’s gross, why are you doing that?”

Yvonne licks Eggsy’s fingers clean and shrugs, nonchalant.

But Eggsy’s already considering the real reason why and _holy shit._

“Take your pants off, Gary. Let me suck you off,” Yvonne huffs, “You’ve been good.”

Eggsy’s ears are burning and he feels like an intruder. “It’s fine, I--I’ll go to the loo.”

Yvonne looks at him oddly, but she’s clearly content with a sated Alicia in her arms and--holy shit. He’s so stupid.

“Don’t make a mess,” She tells him, eyebrow raised, petting at Alicia’s hair.

He hates how warm he feels just looking at them, and he hates how his dick starts to settle down, because he knows he won’t have that. He never will. Because Harry’s dating his mum and--

Yeah, there it goes.

Erection gone altogether.

Anger and misery steadily rising to consume him again.

Eggsy huffs at the irony of it all, but he’s genuine in his words. “Happy birthday, Alicia.”

She murmurs something back, slurred, half-asleep against Yvonne who’s still cleaning the mess between her legs with a flannel.

Eggsy chuckles, shaking his head and saluting them. “Goodbye, ladies.”

 

\--»

 

Bearing gifts, Harry enters the Unwin’s flat. Michelle looks at him, embarrassed and mildly piqued as she closes the door.

“That’s just excessive.”

“Shall I set them here on the table?”

“Yeah, yeah--Look, dinner is at the _evening time_. It’s almost half past seven in the _morning_.”

Harry takes his time in arranging his gifts on the table. “I’m here to offer my services if there’s anything that needs help, preparations or otherwise.”

She rolls her eyes, huffing. “I refuse to believe you’re real sometimes. I’m having this dinner because you’ve helped enough already and I’m thanking you for it. Also, I need to leave for work--shit, my keys,” She curses, anxious, palming around her pockets before disappearing into her room.

That’s when Harry realises the sound of the shower has stopped.

Because Eggsy was in the shower. Which is a thought that shouldn’t be of any importance. Because it’s not about that, it’s--

The door to the bathroom opens, and Eggsy exits, half naked in his sweats, the towel around his neck hardly doing much for the drops of water easing down his skin.

They both freeze.

And despite the initial anger, Harry panics. He panics because of the bruises on Eggsy’s hips in addition to the ones on his wrists, the dark varied colours stark against his skin, accusing. It’s ridiculous how he was about to demand who had caused them before his belated shameful realisation; The realisation that it’s him, that it’s _Harry_ who had hurt him.

The pattern of the moles adds to his rising dismay--they’re identical to the ones in Harry’s wretched dream.

Which means that without his conscious notice, he _was_ paying attention. He doesn’t even _remember_ seeing Eggsy half naked at any point, but his mind had catalogued the smatterings of moles on Eggsy’s abdomen, their approximate number and the distance between them.

“Alright, so--” Michelle stops. Eggsy’s aborted attempts to cover himself is futile. “--What the _fuck_?”

Harry’s heartbeat shoots through the roof, blood rushing in his ears, and--

“What?” Eggsy loudly questions, irritated and defensive.

“What the fuck is that?” Michelle demands, gesturing at his bruises, and the nausea overtakes Harry completely. “ _Who_ \--”

“So I like it _rough_ , “ Eggsy announces, brash and red-faced in his challenge. “What of it?”

Michelle gawks, and Harry stares at the floor.

“God, go to work already. I thought you already went,” Eggsy complains, furious, before going to his own room with a loud shut of the door.

There’s a long moment of silence. Michelle facepalms and starts to laugh hysterically. Harry looks at her, guilty and concerned.

“I’m so sorry you had to see that,” Michelle begins, clearly embarrassed. “Teenagers, huh?”

Harry manages not to squirm, keeping his silence. What could he possibly say?

Michelle huffs, “Well, I gotta go to work. Good luck with that one.”

 

\--

 

Absolutely humiliated, Eggsy hides under the covers, clutching at Galahad.

_Oh my god, oh my god_

“What the fuck do I do now?” He asks him in despair.

The blasted thing doesn’t say anything, of course.

Thankfully, Yvonne calls him, nagging for his arse to get to the studio. Eggsy hesitates in leaving his room because he doesn’t know _why_ Harry’s still in the flat, he can sense him from here, it’s really annoying.

He purposely keeps talking at Yvonne as he goes out his door, ignoring Harry and going straight for the kitchen. “Why do you need me there, Yev? Are you gonna make me suffer again? I was barely alive the first time.”

“ _Take a guess._ ”

Stuffing his rucksack with water and snacks, he scoffs, teasing. “Was this ‘cos of last night? Do you feel like you owe me a blowjob? ‘Cos technically...”

It’s aggravating how he notices Harry go still from the corner of his eye. It really ruins the mood.

If he doesn’t wanna hear lewd conversations that affect his damn delicate sensibilities, he should leave. He shouldn’t be around Eggsy in general.

Except Eggsy can feel him coming closer, stopping a few steps away. It’s really agitating, and Eggsy’s not sure if he means Harry or the distance between them.

“Yeah, Yev. I’ll be there.”

He knows it’s a wrong move to end the call then and there, but Eggsy does, grabbing the last banana to point at Harry accusingly. “What is it? You’re like a puppy who can’t leave me alone.”

_Except puppies like me back._

“We need to talk.”

Rolling his eyes, Eggsy shoves the banana in his bag. “That’s all you’ve been saying.”

“Perhaps because you’ve never given me the chance to speak,” Harry rationalises neutrally.

Damn, why does he have to make so much sense? Eggsy scowls, turning fully towards him and gesturing with his arms wide open. “Have at it then, go on.”

Harry blinks like he wasn’t expecting that. Which, in a way, is embarrassing because yeah, it’s too easy all of a sudden. Eggsy’s supposed to hate him and give him a hard time. At that reminder, he’s really tempted to lash out just to prove a point--but there’s something about the way things are right now, at this very moment. There’s something about Harry and the way he just stands there, _slightly_ leaning against the counter. Just barely.

The guilt Eggsy feels doesn’t make sense and he hates it. Hates the way he feels all _soft_ and concerned.

“I’m not dating your mother, nor do I have any intention to,” Harry takes the chance to say, serious and sincere. “I’m aware it was a lapse in my judgement to have waited in clearing up this matter. You were brash and angry and I couldn’t get a word edgewise--I had thought it was wise to wait it out until your anger had abated. Evidently, I was mistaken.”

He stops, waiting there, waiting for something. And for some reason it reminds Eggsy of those historical dramas on the BBC where someone’s waiting to hear what sentence awaits them in suspense--when really, everyone already knows they’re about to be executed.

But that’s not even what’s bothering him, and it makes him grind his teeth in frustrated confusion. “What the fuck is wrong with you?”

“What?”

Brows furrowing, Eggsy eyes him up and down. “There’s something wrong with you.”

There’s a slight clenching of the jaw, but Eggsy catches it, even if the way Harry straightens even more doesn’t make him more suspicious than he already is.

Eggsy doesn’t even realise that he’s taken a step forward until after the fact, and while Harry doesn’t exactly flinch, he leans back somewhat and Eggsy narrows his eyes.

“...You changed your hair,” He finds himself saying, and he doesn’t why--he’s not even as embarrassed of it the way he should be, because there’s something...not right.

Harry pulls off bizarrely bewildered really well when he asks again, “What?”

“The part of your hair, it’s usually on the other side,” Eggsy points out, insinuating, and he refuses to be ashamed. He tilts his head, trying to get a closer look at the longer side of Harry’s hair.

Immediately, Harry slightly turns away, not meeting his gaze, professing, “Perhaps I’ve decided on something new.”

“ _Perhaps_ ,” Eggsy mimics flatly, insistent on trying to see what Harry could be so antsy about, his right hand rising without his permission, reaching for the side of Harry’s head.

Harry’s hand instantly wraps around Eggsy’s wrist, and they both freeze, staring at each other until Harry hastily pulls away like he’s been burned, which--right. The bruises.

Eggsy purses his lips and steps closer, forcibly taking advantage of the situation yet still somehow gentle as he runs his fingers through Harry’s hair, feeling the rough bumps on his scalp before Harry gets to flinch away.

“What the fuck?” Eggsy mutters, perplexed, stepping closer again but Harry’s stretching an arm out, keeping a distance between them.

When it finally dawns on him, it’s so _outrageous,_ it doesn’t make sense--”Why the fuck do you have stitches on your head?” Eggsy demands, indignant.

“Eggsy,” Harry begins, severely uncomfortable, “Focus. I’m here to clear the misunderstanding between us.”

“Misunderstanding," Eggsy repeats, trying to concentrate, “Okay, alright. You might not be dating my mum yet, but you do know that’s where it’s gonna lead?”

“I’ve already said I wasn’t interested--”

“Right. Look, I don’t know how repressed you are with your...posh everything. But consider what it all looks like, Harry. Your secret meetings with her, how long has that been going on by the way? Since you came back in March?” He huffs out, genuinely curious despite his despair. “Your concern for my future, my health, my safety--You coming over here every time with gifts, you being nice to me and buying me things trying to get me to soften up--What else could that possibly be about if you’re not after my mum and my... _approval_?” Eggsy stares up at him, the tiny sliver of pathetic hope dying the longer he watches the conflict on Harry’s expression.

Every time he looks as if he’s about to give into saying something, Harry only purses his lips tighter.

Shaking his head, Eggsy chuckles, hating how broken it sounds. “Yeah, that’s what I thought.”

“Eggsy--”

His mobile vibrates--Shit, right. Yvonne.

Eggsy grabs his things, getting ready to leave, pushing away his concern for Harry. He’s not supposed to care, not like this.

This whole thing, it’s another moment of weakness, that’s all. Like a diplomatic cease-fire between enemies to have a civilised conversation for once. And he disciplines himself, toughening up. Because the cease-fire is over, and it’s back to war.

Eggsy sneers at Harry’s attempts for another conversation.

“Sort yourself out, guv.”

 

»

 

He meets her outside the studio, but she drags him to a café nearby and all they do for the first few minutes is suck at their straws from across each other in their small table.

Rolling her eyes, Yvonne huffs. “You left last night. I had plans.”

Eggsy raises his eyebrows at that. “You seemed to be doing alright on your own.”

Yvonne scowls. “It’s not what you think.”

Sympathy is a weird thing. He only shrugs. “Okay.”

“I thought you were gonna clean up and come back, I was gonna ride your dick, but you just left," She complains. “I demand a do-over.”

“Does this do-over include Alicia Longman?”

“Of course not.” She frowns, considering. “Though she didn't get your dick last night, she might want a go." Yvonne pulls out her mobile. “Lemme ask her.”

“Oh my god," Eggsy mutters, hiding his face. “Do you just...get her whatever she wants?”

Yvonne purses her lips. “I try.”

“Wh--why me? I mean, it was her first time. Shoulda been you. I mean, like, I used fingers--Did that even count?”

She gives him this look, like he’s daft or something. “It’s not like that, Gary. She’s just a friend.”

“...Right. Okay.”

Sighing, she fiddles with her plastic cup. “I asked who she wanted for her first time. She told me you’d be nice. I didn't believe that at first, obviously.”

He eventually gawks. “Wait. Is this why you offered me access to Pineapple? Did you know I’d dance my arse off sore so I couldn't fuck her proper?”

Yvonne actually snorts at that. “Is that why you were all weird? Oh my God--And no, though that’s a very clever plan. I’m pleased that you think of me that way.”

He huffs. “You should have just offered yourself up.”

“I did. I offered. Jokingly, of course. She laughed." Yvonne shrugs like it’s no big deal. “I told you, it’s not like that. She’s not like that.”

Eggsy scrunched his face. “But...how do you know? She more than puts up with you. She asked for your dress, right?”

Yvonne chuckles. “She’s been eyeing that dress since day one. We’re from very different circles, she and I. Alicia is too good for this world. We only clicked because of that dress. She has an appreciation for nice things. God knows why she puts up with me. Bless her.”

Something occurs to Eggsy. “Did you send her that text?”

“Huh? Oh,” She glances down at her mobile, fingers moving.

“Don’t," Eggsy stops her.

“What?” She actually looks offended. “What does that mean? Don’t you like her? She’s nice. She’s precious.”

“Well, yeah but--” He hastily puts his hands up, babbling away his excuses. “What if she falls in love with me or something, I don’t want you poisoning my drink.”

“Why would I do that?" Yvonne asks him, brows furrowing. “If she falls for you I can’t help that. If I kill you, she’ll be sad.”

Eggsy stares. “Don’t you want--don’t you want her to fall for you instead?”

Yvonne sips at her drink for a long time before answering. “It’s not going to happen. I’ll just be by her side, waiting to get over it. All I can do is make sure she gets what she wants and be happy.”

His stomach churns. What the fuck? Even Yvonne Jansen is a better person than he is. What the fuck.

“ _Anyway_ ," Yvonne emphasises, waggling her eyebrows. “That doesn’t mean we can’t have _fun_.”

“Will that help?" He genuinely wonders, feeling desperate.

“Help with what?"

 _The emptiness inside_ , he wants to say. But that’s too dramatic, if not plain embarrassing.

Despite saying nothing, she seems to get it. Yvonne flips her hair, casual. “It helps. For a bit. It’s better than nothing. These kinds of situations...people just have to learn to deal with it and move on.”

Eggsy joins her for ballet at Pineapple, but she doesn't have time for another class because she actually has important shit to do. She attempts to coax him to accompany her all day with the promise of quality alcohol. Of course, he can read between the lines.

“The next time you proposition me, Yev, try not to do it after a hardcore physical activity that’ll leave me practically bedridden for the next few days." He rolls his eyes. “And I don’t think honey whisky is a real thing but nice try.”

She looks at him, clearly torn between bewilderment and amusement. “Yes it is, Gary.”

“Yeah?” He scoffs, narrowing his eyes. “Does it taste good?”

“Like most things in life, you have to try it out yourself.”

He frowns. Honey whisky sounds like it could be good, like it could be sweet and not like the other bitter shit that he’s had to deal with.

Yvonne ruffles his hair. “You know where to go if you wanna have a taste.”

Eggsy snorts at that and watches her leave.

Trying not to think too much about life in general, he loses himself in another capoeira class. It’s all he can handle for now. He actually wants to be able to move the next day and not feel like more shit than he already does.

Still, he’s sweaty as fuck, and he just has to wait until the changing rooms are completely empty. He moves the cautionary sign to block the door so hopefully no one will come in. It actually wouldn’t be completely disastrous if someone does. The bruises shouldn't be too much of an issue. He doesn't look underage, and if anyone asks, he can blame it on rough sex with some wild fictional girl.

His mum took that excuse at face value after all. Jesus fuck. He tries not to flush in mortification at the memory and puts on a fresh pair of sweatpants on. Reaching for a shirt, he suddenly freezes.

“My, my," A familiar voice echoes, making the hair on the back of his neck stand up.

Eggsy’s hackles rise, turning to find Mycroft Holmes leaning back on the wall next to the door, three piece suit on and everything.

The man’s eyeing up the bruises, he knows, and Eggsy fights to keep his expression neutral. He distantly hears his own mobile vibrate.

“Mr. Holmes, do you make a habit of creeping around?"

Eggsy belatedly grits his teeth; He can pass it off as indignance and not because he’s realised he sounded like Harry again. He huffs. “Can’t see you dancin’, guv.”

“...Who is it that’s handled you so roughly, Mr. Unwin?" Holmes questions, _seemingly_ indifferent. But there’s something in his tone, and Eggsy doesn't like it.

“One of my girls did. You just missed her actually, an hour or so ago, she was here." He puts his shirt on and turns his back, pretending to look for something in his rucksack while reading the text.

 

**04\. 08. 2007 - Hazly Wobbles:**

_Your mother informed me that she needed something called Bovril. Will that be in Tesco?_

 

‘ _How fcking domestic_ ’

 

On second thought, Eggsy types up a second message.

 

‘ _Covent grdn ASAP. Pineapple dance studios, wait outside_ ’

 

When he turns back, Holmes is still there, still watching. Eggsy raises his eyebrows, a kind of bravado washing over him.

“Guv, you just ain’t my type. Sorry.”

The man mirrors him with an eyebrow raise, peeling himself off the wall. “Aren’t I?”

A cold chill runs up his spine. Because it suddenly hits Eggsy then--Is this the sick fuck who’s been taking advantage of young people all over London? His heart hammers but he wants to laugh at the same time. This is way too obvious. If it’s true, Eggsy just can’t believe his luck.

“I don't know what you’re talking about," Eggsy tells him, keeping his calm like there’s nothing wrong.

Holmes saunters towards him, slow, step by step. It’s excruciating, and Eggsy wants to run, run, run.

“Tall, rich man. Posh, bespoke suit. That’s your type, is it not?”

Eggsy’s stomach _lurches_ and his pulse skyrockets, but he holds his head high, honest in his answer. “No."

_Just the one._

The man is too close now, can’t be more than two feet away, staring down at him. Eggsy makes a show of licking his lips before eyeing him up and down. “You can try and convince me though, if you’d like.”

There’s a tense beat before Holmes suddenly rolls his eyes and raises his eyebrows like he's just done with life. “You’re going to have to do better if you choose to go undercover, Mr. Unwin.”

Eggsy blinks.

 _What_.

Mycroft Holmes pulls out a small envelope from his inner suit jacket. “This is your target--Should you choose to undertake the task that you so _enthusiastically_ volunteered for.”

Trying to wrap his head around the situation, Eggsy can only stare at him.

“If you change your mind, simply burn everything--To _dust_ , Mr. Unwin.”

The man’s still watching him carefully when Eggsy mechanically takes the envelope.

“Enlighten me, Mr. Holmes.”

“Inspector Lestrade has moral qualms about letting you do what you offered. I’m taking it upon myself to make the choice for him.”

“He doesn't know?”

“No. Not unless you tell him. Do keep in mind that once he is informed, he might attempt to stop you.”

Everything is so fucked up right now, Eggsy doesn't know who or what to trust. “...You two know each other?”

“We have a mutual acquaintance. I know his source.”

Eggsy narrows his eyes. “ _You_ know a homeless junkie?”

Holmes purses his lips. “Unfortunately.”

In the silence, they only watch each other.

“Any questions?" The man finally speaks.

“...Yeah," Eggsy nods, trying not to be angry. “You’re supposed to be a tailor, Mr. Holmes.”

What right does this man have to send a teenager undercover straight into the arms of a maniac? Or is he just a careless posh vigilante?

“That really isn't a question, is it?" Holmes raises a wry eyebrow, and Eggsy fails in his attempt of emotional self-control. He’s back to wanting to strangle him already, especially as he continues on, observing him keenly like Eggsy's some kind of science experiment. “Aren’t you going to ask me about Harry Hart? You’re a smart boy, Gary. Surely you’ve had your suspicions.”

Eggsy doesn't want to think about it. He can’t.

His mobile vibrates in the background and he regains his resolve. Eggsy raises his head high again, meeting Mycroft Holmes in the eye. “If Harry Hart says he’s a tailor," He leans in closer, deceptively calm and unafraid, “Then he’s a fucking tailor.”

 

\--

 

Harry frowns at his mobile, plagued by an unexplainable anxiety.

It’s abated soon enough when Eggsy exits the building. Despite the pursed lips at the sight of Harry, the boy makes his way towards him.

The relief is short-lived when he sees Mycroft Holmes coming through the same door. He tenses, putting his mobile away. What the bloody _fuck_ \--

When Mycroft spots him, the corner of the man’s mouth twitches like he’s _won_ something and Harry begins to advance, gripping the handle of his soft-leather briefcase. Despite its pliant nature, Harry knows he can make it _hurt_ when he’ll strike him with it.

He only gets three steps forward before there’s a firm grip on his right arm, somehow avoiding the injury.

“Behave," Eggsy mutters, facing the opposite direction, gaze afar.

Harry doesn't know whether he’s bewildered at the command or at himself for following it. Barely. He tries not to focus on Eggsy’s hand on him, tries not to let the feel of it consume him, tries not to memorise it.

Mycroft walks in their direction, and Harry aims to move forward, to block him from Eggsy, but Eggsy’s somehow already in front him, turned towards Mycroft.

Mycroft, who rolls his eyes at the sky, appearing vaguely nauseous. Good. Harry hopes it's food poisoning.

“Mr. Hart," Eggsy begins, surprisingly enough. “You know Mr. Holmes, don’t you? He introduced himself as a tailor.”

“Not all tailors are well-acquainted," Harry neutrally answers the rhetorical question, non-committal.

“Ah, well. Mr. Holmes, you know Mr. Hart, yes?”

Mycroft nods, a hint of a smirk on his features. It disappears as Eggsy takes a step back beside Harry, hooking an arm around his elbow. “Mr. Hart here is dating my mum. Or trying to anyway," Eggsy scoffs, and Harry doesn’t have to look to know that he’s rolling his eyes and scrunching his nose. Harry regrets not having drafted up a will in the case of his untimely death as Eggsy continues. ”He’s trying to _impress_ her, so we’re gonna go grocery shopping to help make dinner later."

Other than his raised eyebrows, Mycroft’s face has gone blank.

“Well, we gotta go now. Bye." With their interlinked arms, Eggsy maneuvers Harry to turn the other way and they walk on. Eggsy continues talking, not overtly loud, but not exactly normal volume for two people having a conversation either. “What else did she say, Hart? Did she give you a shopping list?”

Harry clears his throat. “Yes, but I know where to find most of them.”

“Just not Bovril?" Eggsy questions, somewhat outraged and sceptical.

And he’s right to be. Because Harry lied. He knows where to find it.

Well, _technically_ , he didn't lie. He simply...asked for clarification.

Eggsy huffs, “Careful now, they might just revoke your UK passport just for that--Your whole citizenship, I reckon.”

Before Harry can let himself fully believe that things are fine between them now, that things are back to normal, Eggsy's demeanour changes the further they get. The boy gets quiet, tense, eventually easing his arm away from Harry.

The distance between them becomes excruciatingly noticeable.

Eggsy grips at the straps of his rucksack. Harry hides his free hand in his pocket.

He doesn't even know where to begin. There are several matters needing discussion. What the bloody hell was Mycroft Holmes doing? How do they know each other apart from the incident in the bookshop? Why did Eggsy lie to his mother about the bruises?

“Where are we going, Eggsy?” He murmurs instead; Eggsy is sulky and bitter again, Harry knows he's not going to get a proper answer regarding the important issues at hand. It's simply going to lead to more volatile responses that Harry will ultimately stress about, so he'll hold off on the questions as best that he can until the time is right. Hopefully.

“I saw a Tesco Metro a few streets away,” Eggsy shortly replies, taking out a bottle of water and drinking the very last of it. It clearly isn’t enough, and Harry finds himself opening his briefcase.

“Here,” Harry urges, handing a juice-box over. “Might as well.”

Eggsy briefly falters in his walk, staring at it and looking at Harry strangely. Chagrined, he feels the need to explain.

“I have a whole box of them in the pantry and you clearly weren’t coming over anymore. I didn’t want it to have to go to waste.”

Jaw clenching, Eggsy finally takes it. In between his noisy sips, he questions him eventually. “How’s your head?”

Harry huffs. Isn’t he the one supposed to be asking questions?

“Not that I care,” Eggsy tells him, “I just don’t want you passing out in public. People might think I killed you. Get me arrested.”

That shouldn’t sting. He answers him regardless. “It’s manageable, Eggsy.”

It’s odd and surprising, how he doesn’t get any more questions after that.

Michelle didn’t have much in her list of forgotten things, so they get what they came for in Tesco fairly quickly. Somehow, they linger, and Harry scrutinises the jar of Branston Pickle in his hand. It’s been a while since he’s stocked his pantry with these.

“Are you gonna get that or what?”

Harry frowns, putting it in the basket. He can settle for one and come back someday for the rest.

“What, is that your weakness or something?” Eggsy squints at him suspiciously, and Harry tries not to mind it, especially when the boy suddenly gasps. “ _Holy shit._ ”

“What is it, now?”

“Is that why you named him that way? Mr. Pickle? Because of _Branston Pickle_?” Eggsy accuses, appalled, and Harry refuses to be embarrassed. How does this boy make lightning fast conclusions? Granted, some of them are wrong, what with this situation involving Michelle, but Harry genuinely doesn’t know if it isn’t better than the alternative.

Ignoring the pain and soreness of his body, Harry wisely steals the basket from Eggsy’s grasp in a flash and moves on to the next aisle. “Would you like juice-boxes in your own pantry?”

In the following silence, Harry glances back to find Eggsy gritting his teeth.

“Stop that shit,” Eggsy mutters, chiding. “And we don’t have a pantry. We just have the cupboards and the fridge. We ain’t got no space. So when you start escalating in buying my mum shit, keep that in mind, yeah?”

Harry shuts his mouth despite all the things he wants to say. This is a mess. Eggsy’s words earlier made sense with appearances being what they are. The only other way he could make Eggsy believe otherwise is to tell him the truth--the mere thought of it makes Harry queasy.

_I don’t buy you things because I’m interested in your mother, I buy you things because I want you to have everything you need and everything you want because I--_

He will never tell him.

He can’t.

Not unless he wants Eggsy to look at him with fear and disgust.

Harry grabs a pack of juice-boxes in defiance of Eggsy’s protests before making way for the check-out queue. The lines are long, which shouldn’t be surprising. It’s four in the afternoon on a Saturday.

Stealing the basket back, Eggsy maneuvers them into the self check-out section, making Harry rightfully apprehensive. They have less than ten items, but just as expected, it manages to be a chaotic experience.

“Put it in the bag, Harry,” Eggsy slowly tells him despite the clear impatience in his tone.

Harry grits his teeth, holding back from killing the machine to stop its mutinous beeping. “I _did_ put it in the bag. I _am--_ ”

“Well, put it in _proper_ ,” Eggsy commands, brusque.

Abruptly, Harry finds himself asking, “Do you need condoms?”

And he refuses to analyse how he got to that point, how he managed to associate the words, but Harry’s already hating himself, wishing he were in a mission that ended up with him shot unconscious so he didn’t have to think about it.

The look on Eggsy’s face probably matches what Harry feels inside.

Finally noticing the non-discreet glances in their direction, Harry is suddenly hit by the self-conscious terror.

Unexpectedly, Eggsy laughs, bitter and embarrassingly awkward at the same time. “You’re really aiming for best step-dad of the year, aren’t you?”

At that, Harry doesn’t know whether or not to be relieved, because either Eggsy’s getting used to the idea of him being a father figure or he’s simply given him a way out. Which means he knows what the situation looks like, what _they_ look like to the people of the public. He can only stare as Eggsy grabs the bananas from his grasp, putting it in the bag properly, seemingly taking pity on him.

“C’mon,” He urges, carrying all their bags before Harry can get to them. “Mum’s shift should be over soon.”

Out in the street, someone in a hurry bumps hard against Harry and rudely moves on. Other than the initial pain, Harry can’t really react much in a civilian setting, but--

“Oi!” Eggsy immediately yells, turning around, indignant. “Watch where the _fuck_ you’re going, yeah?”

 _Don’t be charmed, don’t be charmed,_ Harry thinks desperately as he watches him gnash his teeth like he’s going to run after the perpetrator to tear him to pieces.

“It’s alright, Eggsy.”

“Fuck you,” Eggsy spits, eyeing him up and down. “Are you okay?”

Despite all odds, Harry’s tragically charmed.

 

\--»

 

His mum still isn’t home when they get to the flat, and he doesn’t even argue too much when Harry insists on helping him put the stuff away. Eggsy is exhausted. In more ways than one.

There’s the envelope hidden in his rucksack that calls for his attention, but now is not the time.

He does his best not to watch Harry, does his best not to pay attention when his graceful movements become slightly _stilted_ for barely a second, does his best not to think of an alternate universe where he had the right to stop what Harry’s doing right now and start taking his clothes off instead, gentle and slow, wanting to examine his body and catalogue the injuries that lies underneath the suit.

Eggsy fails.

And he gets angry. He wants to demand answers. He wants to know what Harry does for a living, he wants to know if he’s just excessively imagining things, he wants know why he’s injured and he wants to know _who_ did it.

But he doesn’t have that right.

Mycroft Holmes didn’t have to say a word. Eggsy knows he was being taunted.

What kind of man has the ability to have and give out that kind of information? What kind of man hands over that kind of information to a teenage boy? What kind of man is unburdened by morals, or at least the idea of sending said teenage boy to the sights of a sick fuck who takes advantage of young people and disposes of their bodies like they were nothing?

A powerful man. Dangerous. Masquerading as a tailor.

Harry accidentally catches his gaze, and Eggsy hates him.

Because he looks innocent, he looks kind, and most of all, he looks exhausted the way Eggsy feels.

 _Are you really a tailor?_ He wants to ask. _What do you really do for a living?_

He keeps his mouth shut. That’s not his call. That’s not his secret to tell.

But then Eggsy remembers that Harry’s going to be involved with his mum, and yeah, it _is_ his fucking call.

“Eggsy?” Harry questions, _gentle_ , and it makes his jaw clench.

“M’tired,” He admits.

There’s a sad downturn to the corners of Harry’s mouth at that, and Eggsy’s heart _twists_. He hates it. He hates him.

“Go on,” Harry murmurs, “I’ll take care of things here. Go freshen up and take a rest. I’ll wake you up for dinner.”

Eggsy nods weakly, ready to leave, but he can’t do it without telling him.

“Tonight,” Eggsy begins, low, trying not to acknowledge the shuddering quality of his breaths, “Tonight, I’ll play along. Tomorrow, when I’m not tired, I’ll hate you again.”

Harry smiles, resigned. “You already hate me.”

“I’ll hate you proper,” He promises quietly.

Harry nods, his smile softer and more melancholy and Eggsy can’t breathe.

“As you wish.”

 

»

 

After taking a quick shower, Eggsy holes up in his room with the light off, tossing and turning in his bed.

He frowns at Galahad as he senses Harry outside doing whatever. And it’s weird. It’s weird having him here.

At the thought that it’s not going to be the last time, Eggsy scowls. Harry wouldn’t mess about like this, not if it wasn’t serious. Especially not to the wife of someone whose death he feels guilty about.

His stomach churns at the thought of his mum and Harry’s relationship being official and progressing. If they get married, what would it be like? Will Eggsy and his mum move to Harry’s place?

Jesus fuck, he feels _sick_.

Eggsy sits up on the bed, crawling his way out. He fishes through his rucksack, but he can’t quite open the envelope when he finds it. It ends up hidden under one of the pillows instead. Eggsy moves on to looking for other shit because it has to be done, and when he’s making his way out his bedroom door, he knows he’s forgotten Harry’s sweats but he pretends he doesn’t remember.

 

\--

 

Having scrutinised the Unwin’s cupboards for...reasons, Harry lightly closes them when he hears Eggsy approach.

“Harry,” Eggsy needlessly calls out, quiet.

When he turns, he finds Eggsy holding out the IWM jacket to him, along with the two most recent mobiles. Harry’s heart sinks, and it’s absolutely preposterous.

“Eggsy,” Harry begins, trying to keep his composure.

“You have to take them back.”

“What in the world would I do with them?” He rationalises calmly.

Harry has no need for the mobiles, and the jacket--The jacket fit Eggsy well.

Suddenly remembering the cause of its origin, guilt and disgust makes him want to leave his own body.

A few years ago, when Harry found himself back at the Imperial War Museum and ended up buying gifts for a young Eggsy Unwin, the jacket had caught his eye. Somehow, he had thought it was necessary for Eggsy to have. It was durable, waterproof, simple and classic with a certain appeal. But it was too large for the boy then. There wasn’t any version or size for _children_. It didn’t make sense for Harry to buy him that, especially with his intended pretense being a birthday raffle.

As he was leaving the shop, he was consumed by this odd compulsion to go back. He reasoned to himself that _he_ would wear it, despite knowing that it wasn’t really his style. And again he had reasoned with himself that he could use it whenever he went undercover, or ran out of clean clothes to work out in.

Harry had bought it.

He had kept it in his wardrobe, still unopened after a few years before he decided to shove it in one of the boxes in his locked storage downstairs.

There’s something about this whole thing. Something wrong.

It’s almost as if he was waiting for him to grow up, and the thought of it alone leaves him in despair.

“Just take it, Harry,” Eggsy insists, pushing it towards him.

“There’s no one else those things could possibly be for but you,” says Harry, hiding his desperation. “What in the world would I do with them?”

 _What in the world would I do with them?_ He bitterly thinks. _Stare at them like a sad fool in my empty home?_

“Harry--”

“They are yours, and yours alone,” Harry declares, adamant.

The key in the lock begins to turn, suddenly loud in the grand scheme of things. They both flinch away from each other. Eggsy gives him this look before he leaves to disappear into his room, and Harry knows they’ll be having this conversation again.

“Shit, I--” Michelle pauses, squinting at him like she’s not certain he’s real. “Have you been here all this time?”

“No,” It’s not exactly a lie, “I went out, stopped for groceries upon receiving your text and came back. I do hope I wasn’t overstepping any boundaries.”

She snorts. “You’re an odd one, Harry Hart.”

Michelle makes her way to the kitchen and he keeps his distance.

Her brows furrow. “Is my son home?”

“Yes, he’s in his room at the moment.”

“When’d he get in?”

“An hour or two ago.”

“That early?” She frowns, mildly confused. “Huh. Did you talk?”

Lying to Michelle has never really been true to its definition. It’s mostly been avoidance and omission and vague statements in an attempt at distraction.

“Not quite,” He tells her, and he’s not sure if he aims for assurance or something else. “I do believe I’m getting somewhere, if that means anything.”

There’s a small smile at that, and Michelle huffs. “Well, since you’re here, d’you mind passing the chopping board?”

 

\--»

 

Eggsy twitches awake at the smell of food. And it’s good food too. Not that his mum’s cooking is shit, ‘cos it ain’t. It’s just that he can tell when she’s trying to be fancy and add more ingredients than what they usually spend on.

Of course she is, she’s hosting dinner. That’s so weird to even think about. It’s such a rare occasion, reserved for Christmas or Eggsy’s birthday. But things are changing, that’s for sure.

Brooding, he pets at Galahad, mentally preparing himself. Soon enough, he’s walking out the door and the scene that greets him is so _ridiculous,_ Eggsy just wants to keep going and walk out the flat altogether.

They’re just chatting away as they work in the kitchen, doing their own thing. His mum’s busy with the cooking and Harry’s chopping some vegetables, and Eggsy violently grabs a banana, peeling it in quick, rough movements.

“Oh Eggsy, there you are,” His mum greets, _upbeat_ , and he just passes them by to sit at the dining table, chomping away.

As he goes on for the second bite, he suddenly stops, simply engulfing the tip with his open mouth. Huh. He’s gonna go undercover. Shit.

What does that require him to do?

What does _Holmes_ expect him to do?

Holy shit.

He stares down at the banana and slowly mouths it down, tentative.

What the fuck, Eggsy doesn’t know what he’s doing. He barely gets halfway. _Barely_. How do people do this? Clearly, he has to spend more time with Yvonne.

It’s been overheard plenty of times: The key is with the tongue.

But what the fuck does that even--

Shit, he’s not gonna suck cock though, is he?

Eggsy pulls off, trying not to make a face in distaste. He wonders if Holmes has got the man’s dick size in the envelope along with the rest of the vital information. Surely Holmes doesn’t expect him to full-on seduce a paedophile and go all the way?

Who the fuck knows with that bloke and his skeevy morals.

See, Eggsy’s plan is to be picked up. His objective is to get enough evidence of past activities or, more realistically, probable cause that the sick fuck’s gonna do some dodgy shit. Of course, he’s hoping to get saved by the cavalry before anything happens. And maybe that’s naive thinking. But why not?

While even the thought of being that close to that maniac makes him squeamish, Eggsy only has to think of the people who've been hurt, and Eggsy’s angry enough to go through with everything.

He mouths at the banana with determination. He may not be sucking cock, but he’s seducing that piece of shit and Eggsy’s gonna take his arse down.

“Eggsy Unwin," His mum hisses quietly, and he glances up. "...What the bloody hell are you doing?”

_I’m learning to look like I’m good at sucking cock for the greater good, what the bloody fuck else?_

Oddly enough, he doesn’t burn with embarrassment the way he expected he would, even with Harry right there, averting his gaze, clearly having seen his antics. In fact, Eggsy’s only more indignant about it.

Pulling away from the banana, he stares at her blankly. “What does it look like I’m doing?”

His mum gawks, clearly stumped and unable to speak. She regains enough of herself to sputter, “What does it look like? _Eggsy.”_

It’s really weird how she’s _trying_ to keep her voice down, but Eggsy’s pretty sure she’s not succeeding. And it probably adds to her delusion that Harry’s just casually chopping some more vegetables like it’s gonna be a fucking vegetarian dinner tonight.

Huh. Maybe Harry will leave if he acts up. Like, he swore he was gonna play nice, but...Eggsy’s alive with righteous anger right now, and so he only shrugs, aloof.

“Could be practicing to suck cock, me. That a problem?”

It shouldn’t be noticeable to him, how the rhythm of Harry’s chopping in the background falters and gets fucked up before settling back to normal. At least it shouldn’t be noticeable to his mum who’s just fucking floored with what seems to be shame and bewilderment as she looks at Eggsy like she doesn’t know him.

“No, it ain’t a problem ‘cos you _aren’t_ ,” She counters, insistent and looking ridiculously amused about it.

Eggsy raises his eyebrows, ignoring the swooping dread in his stomach as he challenges on. “I could be. Why? You gonna kick me out?”

God, ain’t that a plan. If Harry and his mum get too serious too fast for him to get used to, Eggsy couldn’t handle it. He’d have to leave. It’s not like he’d be needed. Harry would take care of her.

His mum starts to look serious, if not a little sad. “Of course not. I wouldn’t kick you out. Don’t be silly. But--you have a girlfriend?”

He narrows his eyes. “I could be practicing for a threesome.”

The whole room goes quiet. His mum’s mouth is wide open in shock, and Eggsy can’t even look at Harry right now. He refuses to.

Unexpectedly, his mum suddenly grins, slapping the table and pointing at him. “Eggsy Unwin, you _hound dog_. Good on you!”

Of all the times for him to be embarrassed, it has to be _now,_ and he regrets all his decisions in life. He hides his face against the table as his mum enthusiastically goes on about having fun without forgetting the safety aspect of it all and--

“ _Michelle_ ,” Harry calls out, “The potatoes are baked beyond belief, they look like they’re fried.”

She frowns, making her way over back to the kitchen. “It’s fine. Eggsy likes them crispy anyway.”

Eggsy quickly eats the banana out of sight in an attempt to forget his sins. It isn’t even enough, so he just goes to set the table like a good boy and tries not to die, hoping he never meets Harry’s gaze anytime soon.

 

»

 

It’s slightly past eight in the evening when they actually get the food on the table. His mum is frowning at her mobile and Eggsy can’t possibly survive this dinner if Lestrade isn’t here. He’s considering praying to a higher power and debating whether or not to go to church in payment when there’s a knock at the door.

He beats Harry’s gentlemanly instincts to get to it first.

Lestrade comes in, badly hiding his stress as he apologises profusely about being late until he sees Harry.

“Were you actually here on time?” He questions, appalled.

Harry purses his lips and narrows his eyes slightly. Eggsy would laugh, except his mum snorts and asks, “Why? Is he usually late for things? That’s news to me.”

Eggsy scowls.

Yeah, bet Harry’s never late for any of those ‘meetings’.

“ _Greg_ ,” Eggsy interrupts, garnering a look from Harry which he ignores, “Where you sittin’?”

Lestrade shrugs. “Wherever. I don’t mind.”

There’s not much space and the table’s mostly a square. Mostly. It’s a shite imitation of a proper rectangle, that’s what it is. Eggsy could spread his arms wide and that would roughly be the length of the longest side. There’s only four chairs as well, so everyone would have their own side.

It goes without saying that Eggsy’s mum should be at the head of the table, and clearly Harry thinks the same way considering he starts to pull the chair back, looking at his mum expectantly. Eggsy wants to kill him.

“ _Greg_ , sit next to me, guv, we have _so_ much to talk about.” Eggsy ignores Lestrade’s warning look and pats at the place to his right, across from his mum, which is a fucking mistake because Harry’s settling across from Eggsy and he is ready for death.

“Thank you for having us over for dinner, Michelle,” Harry murmurs, prompting similar words from Lestrade, and his mum gives him a wry look.

“You helped me _make_ dinner,” She turns to Lestrade. “You both have helped a lot with...you know. Thank you.”

They dig in, and the small talk begins. When the discussion turns towards work, Eggsy can’t help but take a discreet glance at Harry. His politely interested expression isn’t really giving anything away. Even then, Eggsy promises himself not to look at him unless he needs to. At least not in the face. He keeps his line of sight below Harry’s neck, which doesn’t really help considering Eggsy gets to see him primly working at his plate, hands around the knife and fork.

“Oh,” His mum reacts, “Is that why you were late, Lestrade? I hope this didn’t cut into your work hours or anything--”

“Nah, just some overtime at the office,” He tells her, chuckling nervously. “Been doing that a lot lately. Very busy. It was about time I got out.”

“You heard about them kids? Is that something anybody’s working on? It’s a bit too much of a coincidence, innit?” His mum asks, and Eggsy immediately takes his chance.

“Ah, yeah--Them kids, _Greg_. What about them kids?”

Lestrade resolutely doesn’t look at him. “Can’t say much about it. We’re working on the preventative stuff though. Hopefully that gets people somewhere.”

Before Eggsy can say anything, his mum scoffs, “Hah! So they _are_ connected! I told you, Eggsy. Be careful when you go out.”

Eggsy scowls. At this point, he doesn’t ever want to be reminded of how old he is. Especially not in front of Harry. “You’re exaggerating, mum. Who’d ever want me?”

A piece of olive evades Harry’s fork and jumps out of his plate. Harry doesn’t even look at it, the nutter. Eggsy grabs it with his bare fingers, and he realises can’t offer it back anymore so he just puts it on his own plate, trying not to look embarrassed as he feels, especially when his mum keeps insisting. “Tsk, that’s not the point, Eggsy.”

“I don’t look like a kid, though? And what are these preventative things, _Greg_? The best thing to do is to catch him.” He desperately turns to Lestrade, trying to get the attention off himself.

“Wait--'want you'?” His mum repeats, belatedly realising something. “What? Is it a serial killer or a paedophile? Oh god, Eggsy, don’t go to them parks anymore. That’s where they hunt, innit?”

“Oh my god, mum.” Eggsy rolls his eyes, agitated and hiding his humiliation. “That’s so cliché, it can’t possibly be real. I’m not gonna meet a weirdo at the park and be taken advantaged of,” he huffs. She’s so ridiculous sometimes. Next thing Eggsy will know, he’ll be locked in his room, rolled up in bubble wrap. He suddenly gets the urge to stop her from escalating in her worries, desperate, “Harry, go on, tell her.”

At first, he’s ashamed for using his first name in front of everyone, but Harry’s just keeps on slicing his chicken even though the edge of knife is already against the plate. Eggsy frowns.

His mum sighs. “You never know, Eggsy. You can never be too careful. Tell him, Lestrade.”

Lestrade clears his throat. “Well, it’s both. It is a bit cliché--Doesn’t mean there isn’t any danger, but these predators, they’re very sophisticated now.”

“Ah! With the thing on them internets, I totally get you.” His mum nods enthusiastically, clearly about to nag at Eggsy again.

Eggsy immediately goes on the defence. “Don’t even look at me, I don’t have a computer.”

Well, technically…

No, he doesn’t. It’s Harry’s extra computer. It’s been lent to him, that’s all. He’s never gonna see it again.

“Actually, it's more than the dangers of the internet,” Lestrade says. “But I’m not going to mess up this dinner with any gory details, god knows my wife keeps chastising me for that,” He laughs awkwardly.

Eggsy lets the conversation fade into the background and he thinks of his supposed undercover work instead. Is he really going to go through with it? Whatever’s inside the envelope that Mycroft Holmes gave him, will it have instructions in addition to information?

Like, he knows he volunteered, and whatever else happens is his fault alone, but will he have anyone at all to talk to about this other than Holmes? Lestrade apparently doesn’t even know. What if something terribly wrong happens? Who can he call?

Other than Harry, he means. Harry doesn’t count anymore. He’d probably grass him up to his mum.

Well, the point of being undercover is secrecy isn’t it? Whatever happens, Eggsy just needs to get the job done and keep his mouth shut.

Lestrade’s laughter abruptly cuts through his thoughts.

“It’s true! My wife wants it. I’m horrified, Michelle.”

“Happy wife, happy life, you dolt.”

“She wants me to invite people over for it, that’s the thing. It’s embarrassing. Unless you all come to the party, I don’t even know what I’m going to do. How about that? Michelle, Hart? Hell, even Gary.”

“What.” Eggsy manages.

Lestrade looks at him strangely. “My wife, for our ten-year anniversary, she wants a fancy vintage-inspired dance party.”

Eggsy can’t even focus right now, but his mum laughs. “I can’t dance. Don’t be ridiculous.”

Lestrade scoffs. “Get Hart to teach you, Michelle. Bet you he wouldn’t mind, eh, Hart?”

Jesus fuck, Lestrade actually waggles his eyebrows and Eggsy wants to kill him.

Harry pulls at his suit, murmuring quietly. “I wouldn’t mind, no.”

“See? It’s all works out. It’s final. You all are going.”

“Don’t you have friends, _Greg_?” Eggsy questions, annoyed.

Lestrade isn’t offended at all. “I have friends from _work_. I can’t possibly spend the night making small talk with them, that’d put a damper on things, wouldn’t it? Anderson especially, dear god.” Lestrade rolls his eyes to the ceiling.

“Oi--” Eggsy’s mum points a finger at Lestrade. “If it’s your ten-year anniversary, you ain’t gonna spend it making small talk, bloody hell.”

In a moment of weakness, Eggsy gives in to glance at Harry.

Harry who’s staring down at his unfinished plate. And the thing is, Harry always makes a point to finish his plate. At least to a certain _polite_ amount. Compared to Eggsy, he finishes it in a certain time-frame too, unless he’s being _extra_ polite and is trying not to let Eggsy feel bad about his eating habits. Harry probably didn’t think that Eggsy noticed. But he did.

When Eggsy’s mum leaves for the kitchen to get dessert, Eggsy subtly takes the chance to slowly slide his foot forward under the table, careful in trying to brush his socked foot against Harry’s oxfords.

He senses Harry go still.

Fuck.

Why the fuck did Eggsy do that?

_The fuck._

He pulls back in the hopes that he can pass that off as an accident and shoves more potatoes in his mouth.

His mum eventually brings dessert over in this enormous platter. There’s _a lot_ of different things on it and it’s just _so_ ridiculously fancy that Eggsy immediately has his suspicions on who designed them that way, much less who bought them in the first place.

Even Lestrade can’t help but make a face. “What in the world are those?”

Eggsy’s mum snorts as she sits back down, reaching over to smack Harry on the shoulder. “You tell him, Hart. I’ve no idea. I probably can’t even pronounce them,” She tells Lestrade. “This bastard apparently went to Paris the other day. Bought back desserts of all things.”

Eggsy gets this little ominous feeling in the pit of his stomach despite his attempts at self-control, because Harry didn’t even flinch, and he’s pretty sure Harry’s injured. Even if Eggsy was wrong about that, he still knows that Harry’s right arm was fucked up enough to be in a sling--and though it’s supposed to be healed, that doesn’t mean it doesn’t hurt.

“Hart?” His mum huffs, amused.

Harry belatedly clears his throat. “Citron tart avec meringue and cheesecake praliné choco-noisettes surrounded by niflettes and an assortment of macarons and cupcakes.”

Lestrade whistles. “Damn, you really went all out.”

“See what I mean?” Eggsy’s mum chuckles. At the first taste of her chosen dessert though, she scrunches her nose. “Seriously, what is it with you and lemon?”

Harry shrugs lightly, hands imperceptibly gripping at his fork and knife.

And _shit_.

The realisation of it fucks him up, but Eggsy manages to keep his cool.

Lestrade has to leave early ‘cos his wife’s clearly yelling at him through the phone when he takes a phone call. They all agree that he should take a few of the desserts with him for forgiveness points and wave him off. Harry stays, the fucking gentleman that he is, and insists on helping with the clean up.

Out of pure disdain, Eggsy tells him to take out the rubbish.

All the way down to the ground floor. Outside. At almost eleven o’clock in the evening. In this neighbourhood.

Honestly, it’s part curiosity and part challenge as well. How far will he take this shit?

But Eggsy’s mum is protesting. “Don’t be ridiculous! It’s late out, and he’s a guest, Eggsy.”

He gives her a flat expression. Look at her getting all worked up about manners. That’s funny. That’s real funny.

“I don’t mind,” Harry murmurs quietly, taking it from Eggsy’s grasp.

There’s a moment of silence where he just watches him go out the door. He doesn’t fucking know why he’s in disbelief, ‘cos really, Harry’s just agitating like that. The worst part is that he’s trying not to acknowledge the guilt and the worry.

Harry Hart’s a grown man who he’s legitimately seen beat down around half a dozen people at once. He’ll be fine.

Eggsy’s fingers tap at the table he’s supposed to be cleaning. When he turns, he sees his mum looking at him weird.

“What’s wrong with you?” She questions.

Taken aback, Eggsy just can’t help but be on the defence. “What’s wrong with _me_? What’s wrong with _you_?”

His mum is genuinely appalled. “You’re the one who’s been weird these past few days.”

He scoffs. “Well, you’re the one being cozy with Hart and everything.”

Her brows furrow. “Well…” She falters and frowns. “Hardly _cozy_.”

Eggsy crosses his arms as he observes her. “Why do you even like him?”

She looks at him strangely, but she finishes loading up the leftovers in the fridge before answering. “He’s alright. He ain’t too bad.”

“Ain’t too bad?” He repeats, incredulous. “You gave him a key. That means you trust him.”

“Yeah,” She chuckles. “I trust him not to steal anything. Bloody hell, there’s nothing in our flat he could possibly want, Eggsy.”

He narrows his eyes at her, refusing to acknowledge the hope blooming in his chest. “Why do you like him, _really_?”

His mum watches him for a brief moment, and she seems to realise something. “Oh--Oh, _no_. Eggsy. It’s not like that.”

“Don’t lie to me,” He huffs out, “I know you’ve been meeting these past few months.”

She looks like she’s about to say something, but then she keeps her mouth shut and that’s really, really suspicious.

Eggsy doesn’t let up. “Mum, bloody hell--”

“Did he tell you that?” She asks, evasive.

“No! I saw you. And it’s pretty obvious, alright? You say you have these ‘friends’ and make excuses to go out. Come on,” He urges, trying not to show just how hurt he is. “Why is everyone always lying to me?”

He’s tired. He’s so fucking tired of this shit.

“It’s a...grown-up thing, Eggsy,” She begins, uncomfortable.

“Oh my god,” He hides his face in his hands. “Do you even know what that sounds like?”

She groans. “Life hasn’t been good, alright? And we just talk.”

Eggsy scrutinises her carefully, letting her go on. A part of him is starting to believe in the hope at last. But something in her expression gives him pause.

“...Maybe that’s why I put up with him,” His mum says, brows furrowing like she’s realised something. “Despite all odds, he seems like a decent person, but most of all, he genuinely seems to care. About us. About you.” She looks at him then, and Eggsy’s stomach drops.

Because _holy fuck_.

All this time it may have not been about _that_ after all. But now that Eggsy’s brought it up, he can tell that the possibility has just dawned on her. The possibility of her and Harry.

Eggsy desperately wishes he could turn back time, because his mum calmly looks... _considering_.

And he has to stop himself from begging her no.

 

_Please, no. Anyone but him._

 

_He’s mine._

 

_He’s mine, he’s mine, he’s mine._

 

Eggsy almost flinches at the sound of the door opening.

His heartbeat is racing and he refuses to turn, so all he can see his mum’s concern. “Shit, is it raining outside? Tsk, Eggsy,” She rolls her eyes, long-suffering. “See what you did?”

He stammers through an attempt at a defensive retort but he can’t resist the need to look at Harry to make sure he’s okay. He’s only slightly damp, his grey suit darkened by a few raindrops.

“It’s nothing,” murmurs Harry, “I was on my way upstairs before it turned for the worst. No harm done,” He meets Eggsy’s gaze, and Eggsy immediately avoids it in favour of wiping at the kitchen counters.

“Get him a towel or something, Eggsy.”

“There’s no need, I assure you. Is there anything else for me to do?”

“Not really,” She frowns, “But you can’t exactly go home now, can you?”

Eggsy huffs, irritated. “Yeah, of all the times you don’t bring your brolly, honestly.”

“Ah, well, the rain should die down anytime soon.”

“Well, in case it doesn’t,” She begins. “Suppose there isn’t anything we can do but keep you here. We don’t have much, but--”

Jesus fucking christ. “He’s not staying in my room, is he?”

He doesn’t know what his mum was gonna offer but goddamn. As posh as Harry is, they’re not giving him the special treatment. Lestrade stayed on the sofa. Harry has to suffer the same fate or leave. And not just because Eggsy’s room is a mess of sad teenage angst.

Eggsy needs Harry out of this place before his mum gets _feelings_ or something.

“Of course not,” Harry and his mum say immediately, and Eggsy raises his eyebrows.

 _You’re certainly not staying in_ her _room, over my dead fucking body._

“Then you’re getting the sofa, it’s final.” Eggsy announces, mulishly leaving to find him some shit.

 

\--

 

Harry wonders at the bizarre situations he’s gotten into ever since he’s met Eggsy, but this can’t possibly be at the top of the list.

Left alone with Michelle, they share a look of sardonic exasperation.

“Thank you, and my apologies for any inconvenience,” says Harry, but she shakes her head.

“I should be the one saying that. And really, this dinner wasn’t just about a thank you.”

He tilts her head, and she briefly glances at the door that Eggsy’s disappeared to. “I was gonna announce that I was taking the job.”

Harry is genuinely pleased for her, for Eggsy. This will be good for him. “What stopped you?”

“It’s better not to say anything until it’s official though, innit? Don’t wanna get everyone’s hopes up. I have to get interviewed and go through rounds of assessments.”

He smiles at her. “I’m confident you’ll get there, but it’s your choice to make whether or not you wish to announce it.”

Michelle huffs. “For now, I’ll keep at my current jobs while I apply, just in case. And,” She raises a finger at him, “I get dibs on the shower.”

Harry shakes his head, bemused. “Of course.”

He doesn’t tell her he has no plans to use it at all, much less stay here for the night. Instead, he sits on the sofa, checking his mobile. It’s been on silent mode since he’s returned to the Unwin flat with Eggsy safely in tow.

It was an action he knew would have consequences.

 

**04\. 08. 2007 - Merlin:**

_You couldn’t be reached with your glasses or your laptop._

**04\. 08. 2007 - Merlin:**

_Arthur asked about your whereabouts. Needs you for a private meeting._

 

Dread curdles in his stomach at the words. He can only hope that he wasn’t being tracked. This mobile isn’t registered to Kingsman at all, and only few people know about it. Granted that number had to expand once he became involved in Eggsy’s life, but it’s still a very limited amount.

Soon enough, Eggsy’s marching towards him, holding out a thick folded square of a blanket.

“Gonna have to warn you. Greg used this the other night when he stayed over.”

Harry does his best not to visibly react.

 _Back with the_ Greg _, is it?_

“Why did Inspector Lestrade stay over?”

“‘Cos I told him to,” Eggsy shrugs, overly nonchalant. “He was hammered as fuck.”

Harry can’t help but raise his eyebrows. He and Lestrade need to have a talk about _courtesy_ , and maybe even professional boundaries.

Before Harry can even progress to the more pressing questions that have been plaguing him for the good part of the day, Eggsy is suddenly dismissive.

“Goodnight,” Eggsy moves to leave before muttering irritably, “And take your shoes off.”

“Pardon?”

Eggsy turns back. “It’s only polite, innit? I take mine off when I’m at yours.”

Harry can’t help but glance at the door to the bathroom at the words. The shower is still running. Michelle shouldn’t have heard anything.

He tries to tamp down the anxiety.

“Of course,” He relents somewhat, “But I’m leaving, I assure you.”

Pursing his lips, Eggsy huffs before going down on his knees in front of Harry, and with his frantic pulse, he can’t help but look to the bathroom door again.

“Eggsy,” He begins, quietly urgent, but the boy keeps at untying Harry’s oxfords.

“Eggsy,” He tries again, and he’s hyper-aware of the fact that the shower has stopped. Harry’s forced to touch his shoulder, lightly pushing him away as Eggsy starts taking the shoes off.

“ _Eggsy_ ,” He breathes, trying to keep his composure.

“They’re gonna be by the door,” Eggsy tells him as he moves and turns away fast.

Harry hasn’t even fully calmed himself down by the time Eggsy’s disappeared into his room and by the time Michelle’s eventually bid him goodnight. He takes the chance to turn off every light in the living areas except the one over the hob. Even from where he is when he settles back on the sofa, the dim light is manageable, if not soothing.

It’s been a long day, and while incomparable to his fast-paced missions over the years, he feels drained. But he can’t quite sleep. And it’s not the current position he’s in, he’s slept plenty of times sitting up straight. He huffs, eyeing the folded blanket.

Ignoring it, he closes his eyes.

 

»

 

He doesn’t know how much time has passed or if he’s even slept at all when he hears a distinct noise in the encompassing silence. It’s a familiar sound, one that makes his heart slightly race in pathetic jubilation.

Soon enough, Eggsy’s sleepy shuffling figure is within his sight.

And Harry genuinely fears at how he doesn’t truly mind whether or not this is a dream.

Because Eggsy’s socked feet are dragging against the carpet, making his way towards him. There’s a massive worn duvet wrapped around his shoulders, a glass of water in hand, and an arm wrapped around the Ikea shark.

Harry never would have thought he’d want to see the bloody thing again, but there it is.

Eggsy passes him by to push the folded blanket off the armrest before taking a seat there, slightly turning towards him, socked feet planted on the cushions. For a moment, Eggsy only drinks his water, Ikea shark settled on his lap, and Harry merely basks in his presence.

“D’you want…?” Eggsy offers gruffly, holding out the glass. Harry only stares at it, swallowing. There’s a short quiet sigh of exasperation before Eggsy leans in further until Harry has to hold the glass, fingers over Eggsy's grip.

Warmth pulses throughout Harry in waves, and it makes him lightheaded.

“Come on,” Eggsy murmurs, gradually pushing until the rim of the glass is touching Harry’s mouth. “It’s been a while. You gotta be thirsty,” He angles the glass, and Harry finds himself slightly tipping his head back to drink. “There you go.”

When Eggsy pulls the glass back, there’s barely anything left, but the boy scrutinises it for a moment, moving it around his grasp before he throws his head back to drink the last of it. And Harry can’t even tell him that he’s put his mouth on the same spot that Harry has because it’s too fast, and Harry feels sluggish.

Mellow.

Eggsy carefully places the glass on the coffee table, and soon enough he’s grabbing the folded blanket, rolling it up. “Move forward.”

“Hmm?”

“Lean forward a bit.”

Harry frowns but he finds himself doing so anyway, and then Eggsy’s sticking the rolled up blanket behind Harry’s lower back. “There you go. Settle. First-class.”

Harry huffs, perplexed and somewhat amused. He leans far back on the sofa, head turned towards him. And Harry hopes that this is a dream. Because how could he possibly find the gall to stare at him so openly when he’s not allowed to?

“I’ve talked to my mum,” Eggsy eventually begins.

“Mmm.”

“You’re not dating.”

“Mhm, yes, that’s what I’ve been saying,” Harry tells him, hushed.

Eggsy leans sideways against the backrest of the sofa as well, facing him and clutching the Ikea shark to his chest. “...She’ll want to.”

Harry slowly blinks at him, not understanding.

“She’ll want to date you, and I’ll hate you again.”

Harry sighs, closing his eyes. “Please, no more of this.”

“You think I want this?” He hears him frown, sees the furrow of his brows without having to. “It’ll be a shitstorm, I’m warning you now.”

“Speaking of,” Harry mumbles, evasive, “Has the rain stopped?”

He doesn’t know why he’s asking. He can’t hear anything else but Eggsy’s very quiet breathing.

“Mmm, no.”

Harry’s senses must be dull. “Hmm, alright.”'

But he senses him inching in closer. In fact, he’s hyper-aware of it. 

“...Yeah?”

Something brushes against Harry’s chest and he opens his eyes to find the Ikea shark staring up at him.

Ridiculous.

He huffs, closing his eyes again.

“...You know, I don’t actually even like lemon that much,” whispers Eggsy.

Harry purses his lips. What kind of dream is this, telling such lies?

“...Like, it’s _okay_ , but it’s not my favourite or anything--At least it wasn’t. I think it might be, now…” The admission is quiet, and Harry hums, approving.

Eggsy continues to talk at him, and whether or not it’s in good approach, Harry’s simply content in letting him do so. Content in their coexistence, feeling grateful if not blessed for this one peaceful moment.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Michelle rubs at her eyes. She has to go to work at eight but she's awake at half past three in the morning because she needs to go to the loo. And even that seems such a task right now. But life is seemingly on its way to get better, what with the job she's about to apply for. Maybe someday she'll have more than one day off in three weeks.

Despite being tired as hell, she remembers to keep her movements quiet as she makes her way to her door. Hart could be outside still sleeping and--

The sight that greets her makes her stop. She finds herself closing the door slightly, peering over the dim scene in confounded disbelief.

His head turned towards the side, Hart is sitting asleep on the sofa, largely covered by a familiar duvet. Eggsy is next to him, hugging a preposterously enormous plush toy of a shark that's taking up space between them, its snout brushing against Hart's chin.

It's such...a _ridiculous_ picture, and Michelle just finds herself staring, unsure if she's awake or not.

Hart's brows furrow, and soon enough he's blinking himself awake. Oddly enough, he doesn't do anything. He doesn't move at all. Just stares at Eggsy's sleeping mug.

For a moment, Michelle's struck by a wave of embarrassment. Eggsy was probably bothering the man about the misunderstanding he was so insistent on until Hart fell asleep--and on top of that, fell asleep next to him. He's so silly, her son. She doesn't know what to do with him sometimes. He's a brilliant boy, really, and Michelle's tried so hard over the years to provide him with what he needs, but she knows she could have done more. Life hasn't been easy, and she was always worried despite her bravado that he was lacking a father figure.

It causes her great pain and shame when she thinks of Dean and how she thought she finally had something going for her and Eggsy. But how wrong she was. The man she thought was charming and good was hurting her son behind her back. Eggsy has said plenty of times that it wasn't her fault, but she's still working on forgiving herself, especially at the fact that Eggsy felt the need to be quiet about it.

Michelle only wants the best for her son. And when she sees that Hart's finally making a careful move, she's confused at first, until she fully realises what's actually happening.

Hart is ever so slowly moving most of the duvet off himself and is covering Eggsy with it instead. He's gentle, even making sure that Eggsy's fully covered up to his shoulders.

And Michelle--she feels _warm_.

Because this man genuinely seems to care. And she misses Lee. She misses him so much. 

Michelle likes to think this is how Lee would be if he was here. Things would be much, much different. 

Eggsy suddenly mumbles in his sleep and squirms closer, dislodging some of Hart's hard work with the duvet as he hauls his leg over Hart's knees, and she's torn between embarrassment and wanting to laugh at how adorable it all is. The boy's like an octopus when he sleeps. He's still in denial whenever she brings it up, but that's why she's surrendered most of her pillows to his room a very long time ago when he was still a child.

Hart looks mildly uncomfortable, but the slight shake of his head almost looks fond as he adjusts the duvet over both of them.

Michelle can't contain her elated huff and Hart freezes.

_Ah, the game's up._

Shaking away her sheepishness, she steps out from behind the door. When he looks at her with this odd expression of severe unease, she waves it off.

Harry Hart is a softie. Michelle's caught him. There's no use hiding it now.

She smiles at the thought, shaking her head as she makes her way to the loo.

There's still a bit of a mystery to him, but from everything that's been going on these past few months, Michelle is beginning to trust again. 

Maybe there's something about what Eggsy accused them of.

Maybe there's something here that could simply _be_.

 

 


	24. 23

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I hate you all this is your fault

 

 

When Harry gets to the front of his door at three in the morning, he notices something in his peripherals.

Behind one of the plants lies a thick manila envelope, and for a moment, he considers being on-guard and searching the perimeter. But he legitimately can’t find enough fucks in the world.

It’s unlikely that it could be Kingsman business that couldn't wait. They’d at least break in and leave it in his office.

Therefore, it must be Quinlan.

Or so he thinks, until he opens it in the privacy of his office.

Extreme dread and self-revulsion makes him lightheaded as he stares at the cover of the packet. There’s a transparent sticky note, seemingly innocuous and unmarked, next to a particular section.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Harry grits his teeth.

Mycroft bloody Holmes.

 

\--»

 

Attempting to get distracted, Eggsy intends to spend a few hours at Pineapple again. At this point he’s mostly trying not to remember his mum’s story about how she woke up at arse o’clock to find Eggsy trying to cuddle Harry on the sofa.

Which is such a _lie_ \--Why is his mum such a liar?

His face burns, but that’s from the exertion of trying to hold himself up for a full minute now in this weird arse position.

 _Anyway_ , he doesn’t remember such a thing. All he remembers is quietly talking away at a dozing Harry, trying not to give into just staring at his face like that.

And maybe, you know, he failed. Just a little.

And made his way closer. Just a bit. A tiny bit.

Harry wasn’t there when Eggsy woke up stretched out on the sofa, covered with the duvet, Galahad included.

His mum only shrugged with this little smile when Eggsy had asked, saying Harry was gone by the time she went out of the loo to go back to her room.

God, the look on her face. Eggsy wants to forget. It’s like she found it all adorable or something. And for the wrong reasons too. Gross.

Clearly, yoga just isn't for him. At least not right now. His mind is going a hundred miles per second and he needs something fast-paced to match.

He jogs around London, slowing down every few minutes until he gets nearer to his destination. It shouldn’t be a little more than a mile.

It might be premature, but he stubbornly decides it’s time.

At least for a glance.

Or to start the charade of an alibi pattern.

It’s hot out, noisy and crowded with these fucking tourists everywhere. But really, what did he expect? It’s London in the summertime, and with where he is, it’s fucking hectic. The Palace of Westminster just draws them in, especially with Big Ben literally around the corner.

Covered behind tourists gathered around the statue of King George V in front of Westminster Abbey, Eggsy watches the visitor’s entrance across the road.

His target’s meant to be in there somewhere.

Just that train of thought makes him second-guess himself. What the fuck is he doing with his life? He can’t believe he’s doing this shit. Jesus fuck.

It doesn’t matter--because he takes a quick breath in and squares his shoulders before relaxing and pretending to enjoy the view.

Eggsy has to go back to work on Thursday this week and he has to figure it out, make his gameplan on top of the backups and the excuses he’s going to have for everybody.

He lightly jogs around, does some arm stretches when he’s positioned in his line of sight, discreetly observing the security measures every few glances. Eggsy’s not stupid, he doesn’t look _that_ suspicious; he’s not the only one looking like a dedicated health nut willfully ignoring tourists. Either way, he doesn't stay long, crossing the road and jogging on by the Thames through Victoria Tower Gardens, letting the ideas form in his head as he stops a few times just to look at the view of the murky water.

Eggsy accidentally does a double-take at a building across the street to his right, but it shouldn't be noticeable to anyone considering how fast he recovered. [Thames House](http://i.imgur.com/NKps4nd.png), MI5 Headquarters. The only real reason why it registered to him was because Quinlan mentioned it once, saying how [discreet](http://i.imgur.com/IjKuAlb.png) it was and how _other_ people should take note--whatever that meant.

He knows the weirdest shit.

And damn, he misses him.

It’s difficult to squirm when jogging, so he just runs faster as if that could shake off the shame at how he treated his best friend. Eggsy fucked up, and he knows he has to call him soon to apologise. But pride is really annoying, and he’s already making excuses to himself about putting it off. He has work, he has the undercover thing, and he has the problem with his mum considering Harry as a potential--

Screeching to a halt, Eggsy pulls his mobile out to dial.

It goes straight to voicemail.

Okay, alright. Fine.

Grinding his teeth and going in circles like a weirdo in Riverside Walk Gardens, he works to get over the sullen pride. Eggsy peers over the Thames, frowning at a weird arse grandiose [building](http://i.imgur.com/9xEz5Jz.png) across the river to the left of Vauxhall Bridge. It has odd looking antennas on the top, symmetrical on each side of each level. What, are they trying to catch aliens? The most ridiculous part is the slope of road heading down towards the river itself. Like, is anybody gonna come into the building by boat or something?

Eggsy tries calling again.

And again. And again.

When it goes to voicemail for the seventh time, he sighs.

“Hey, it’s me, innit? Tried ringing you loads, mate,” Eggsy starts awkwardly before giving up. “Okay, look. Quinlan, I’m sorry. I was a right tit, yeah?” He worries at his lip. “I was so upset, I’m pretty sure I wasn’t even coherent.” Eggsy tries for a laugh. He facepalms. “...I’m sorry about avoiding your calls too. I needed time to think for myself and--” He sighs at his lame-arse excuse. “You know, I’m a shite friend. Don’t know why you put up with me, really.”

The more he thinks about it, the more it rings true.

“I never really asked about you lately, have I? Shit, bruv.”

Rubbing at his face doesn’t stave off the shame and guilt he’s feeling.

“Quin--Jesus fuck. It’s not like you tell me anything though. Why don’t you tell me anything? All I talk about are my problems, why don’t you talk about yours for once? Interrupt my dumb arse.” Eggsy ignores the fact that he’s talking into what’s supposed to be a voicemail. “How are you? Bloody hell. Tell me everything. Even your boring schoolwork and your mental inventions, come on. Any fit people in your life? Are you getting some?”

Damn, he sounds desperate. Maybe he is. Who else can he talk to? Who else puts up with him?

He doesn’t want to bother Roxy. Even if she didn’t have better things to do, she’s still probably miffed. His other mates have their own thing.

More importantly though, who else puts up with Quinlan? Does he have anyone he can talk to and rely on?

“Quinlan, the point is, I’m sorry. You haven’t been calling lately, and maybe you just gave up, that’s totally fine. I just hope you’re alright,” He says, genuine. Having real friends was an odd thing to begin with, managing to keep them was even more of a surprise, especially considering how far away Quinlan has been, along with Roxy. Things being as they are now...maybe that’s just what happens. People move on.

Staring at the building again, he finds himself squinting.

Shit.

It’s the _MI6_ building.

At the belated realisation, he immediately turns away.

What kind of dodgy bloke he must have looked, staring at it while talking on the phone for _minutes_. God, now he’s paranoid.

“Shit, gotta go, bye.”

 

\--

 

“Hart,” M snaps, “Would you care to say what you find so _riveting_ outside my window or are you simply here to waste MI6’s time?”

Harry frowns.

“Mycroft Holmes,” He says, tearing his gaze away from the view across the river to look at M directly. “Is he under your control?”

Her expression is of callous superiority, which honestly is to be expected. “Did you come here honestly believing I would answer that question?”

“He’s meddling into matters that he shouldn’t be meddling with,” Harry manages calmly. Shame and self-hatred aside, he still needs to ask Eggsy about Mycroft. Among other things. However, he needs to set the stage. Harry won't get a clear answer if the boy's in a bad mood. It might’ve finally gotten in his head that Michelle and Harry were never in such a relationship, but he seems to be under the impression that ultimately that is where it will lead.

M scoffs, typing at her computer. “Mycroft Holmes _is_ a liaison of sorts. And frankly, that man meddles in everything. Even a proper chiding doesn’t do him any good. I reckon the only person who can stop him is the bloody queen herself. He does hate disappointing her. I’d rather not see him within my halls. It gives me headaches. I have more important things to worry about.” She waves him off, clearly dismissive as she starts on a pile of folders, multitasking.

That's not the answer Harry was looking for, but he can read between the lines. She doesn't control Mycroft Holmes. At least not entirely. He hasn't crossed the line far enough for her to take him on.

Regardless, he needs her to continue on the off-chance he’ll find something useful, and so he persists. “Speaking of headaches--Where’s double-oh seven?”

M looks up at him, eyes sharp.

Harry remains non-threatening. “Simple curiosity. Personal. Haven’t seen him around or heard from him.”

She raises an eyebrow. “Don’t bother. That man is straight. And he’s far from a headache, he’s a head-splitting migraine.”

One would initially think that anyone would have better self-control in the presence of the head of MI6, but Harry gives into rolling his eyes. “Even if it wasn't the Ducati he left under my care as a testament to his terrible sense of humour, it’s simply come to my attention that there was a bombing that affected a quaint little building I’m rather fond of in Italy last week. Again, simple curiosity.”

M’s suspicion doesn’t budge. In fact, it only worsens.

“Did that misogynistic dinosaur send you here to gather dirt on my operatives?” M narrows her eyes. “As tempting as it is, you can’t blame every reckless disaster on double-oh seven.”

Harry huffs. “No. But you cannot deny the reputation that comes with the designation.”

“Exactly,” Rubbing at her temple, M decides to mulishly reveal some information at last. “Which is why double-oh seven has mostly been sent to domestic assignments for the last few months in short of punitive measures.”

The sympathy Harry feels makes him want to cringe; Domestic missions simply aren’t that much to look forward to. He himself never aspired to be assigned any until--

“M, with all due respect, that might have the opposite effect. Bond works for MI6 not MI5, that might breed some resentment.”

“Don’t tell me how to do my job," She scoffs. “He did all he could to avoid psych. So I’ve been sending him to Scotland, it’s meant to be _therapeutic_.” There’s a twist of a vindictive smile, quick and sharp, before she resumes in her austere demeanor. “As it is, he’s been playing dead. Again. Therefore, tell _Arthur_ to mind his own business.”

“Dead?”

“Radio silence. He’s like a child,” She mutters distractedly as she goes through a pile of documents, “Little does he know I’m not signing his obituary unless it’s passed a certain time-frame or I’ve seen the evidence. Now leave my sight.”

Harry nods in deference, not doing much to contain the twitch of his mouth. Other people’s problems shouldn’t make him feel better about his own.

But, alas.

 

\--»

 

Freshly showered and back in his bedroom, Eggsy settles on his mattress and pulls out the envelope hidden in the pillowcase. He’s opened it this morning, looked it over until he felt the need to leave and burn off some anxiety.

He unfolds the thin stack of papers, eyes immediately drawn to the newspaper clippings and the photos stapled onto it.

It’s the face of his target.

[Richard Henry Arthur Cavendish](http://i.imgur.com/bt8gctt.jpg), Marquess of Hartington.

Objectively, the heir to the Dukedom of Devonshire still doesn't look as bad as he should for his age any more than he did this morning. Not that forty-one is old. Harry’s older than he is, and Harry looks damn fucking fit--

Eggsy scowls, pushing away the thought alongside the resentment and shame that comes with it.

Point is, Cavendish is not the creepy disgusting old man that Eggsy had in mind. Cavendish has this suave air to him--a charming bloke, clearly. But if Eggsy looks a bit too close at the pictures on the newspaper there’s just something about his eyes, his smile.

It makes Eggsy grind his teeth whenever he stares at the photo for too long.

Other than the usual lists of where Cavendish usually spends his time, what he likes and what he doesn't like, the papers describe a typical posh upbringing. A noble family line, a Cambridge education, along with memberships to a handful of elite social clubs.

The thing is, they're not all clichés.

Well, maybe being involved in a bunch of charity organisations is just a normal thing that rich people do to look good, but he's also reported to have taken a serious interests in the arts, specifically photography. Eggsy tries not to think of the implications of that, or even the two of those together, and how maybe underprivileged kids in those charity organisations have been taken advantaged of.

Cavendish doesn't get caught in the public eye too much other than attending film premieres, but when he does, it generally seems favourable. An article actually talks about how he stopped his own nomination for the House of Lords and how he wants to concentrate on living his own life instead of one molded for him and his status.

Which would be an admirable thing to Eggsy if Cavendish didn't benefit from said status his whole life to begin with, and the fact that the man also spends his time with his other posh noble friends in high places. That’s just odd, that. Sabotaging your own nomination for the House of Lords and spending your time there anyway, _visiting_.

But from scrutinising the photos, Cavendish seems to only wear the poshest suits for the most formal of events, or when he’s going to his private clubs, along with official places like the Palace of Westminster. Candid photos show him in a lot of casual clothes, sometimes _too_ casual, matching the assistant that follows him around most of the time.

Like, what, doesn’t Cavendish pay him enough? It’s like the bloke doesn’t get paid enough to buy quality clothes or get them dry-cleaned. But despite Lucas Wiltshire’s questionable fashion choices and his weird half-smug, half-disgruntled persona, the profile sheet says he’s ex-special forces. If Holmes’ information can be trusted, there’s a very good possibility that Wiltshire’s the one helping in getting rid of the bodies.

But he looks like that [vampire](http://i.imgur.com/S9KxHvQ.jpg) from _Twilight_ , and Eggsy can’t possibly take him seriously. And while, okay, yeah, _Twilight_ hasn’t even been filmed yet, he’s gotten direct production news from Roxy, including who’s been cast and who’s been auditioning, photos and all. She keeps tabs on that shit. Out of irony and spite, she claims. Eggsy just thinks she wants to make his life miserable every now and then.

Anyway, Wiltshire seems [friendly](http://i.imgur.com/xt30fDh.jpg) with the wife too. And that’s the strangest part in all these papers, the order of mention. Cavendish’s wife is _last_. From the [photos](http://i.imgur.com/o4yuLlp.jpg) [alone](http://i.imgur.com/LwJqn8p.jpg), Eggsy’s reminded of those dramatic stories about Helen of Troy. Marielle Cavendish is a dedicated neuroscientist educated at University College London. She had to model part-time to get through school despite her rich businessman of a father.

Eggsy hates to think that Cavendish took advantage of her as well, but there’s not much detail about their relationship. They married quietly back in two thousand and five.

If not spending time with his social duties, Cavendish is busy with his professional photography, going under the name Henry Hartington, and if his wife isn’t busy with her work and the conferences that take her all over the world, she’s either doing charity or doing some home projects in their _castle_ in Ireland.

This whole situation might just be bizarre, and it's enough to give Eggsy some doubt.

With a wife like that, why would a man need anyone else? What if Cavendish only looks dodgy to him because his judgement’s been altered? What if he isn't the suspect at all and Eggsy's being framed by Mycroft Holmes?

Framed for what, he doesn’t know yet.

Eggsy looks at the photos again and tries to pretend that he knows nothing at all, that he’s just come across them in a newspaper left lying around in the tube.

With that mindset, he stares. Eventually, Cavendish doesn’t look so skeevy anymore.

Eggsy tries not to panic.

The envelope included three tiny round metal thingies, sort of like those really small batteries for watches or something. Specific instructions were to press a sequence on them before leaving them behind places where Cavendish might talk openly about things. Like his office, his car, his house, his study. It doesn't need to be said that the bedroom is probably ideal.

Which means Mycroft Holmes really believes him to get really deep into this whole thing, close enough to get to those places.

It makes him antsy.

Either way, he has to figure it out. He has to decide for himself if Cavendish really is what Mycroft Holmes makes him out to be. Eggsy can’t risk it.

He looks over all the information again three more times before he puts it back in his pillowcase. His hand brushes up against another paper inside and he pulls it out.

Upon seeing the familiar folded graph paper, Eggsy’s lips thin.

He unfolds the Theory draft anyway, heart heavy.

He can’t help but reminisce about his ignorant days filled with _Harry this, Harry that._

Fucking stupid.

His fingers feel the paper, feel the strong marks of his pen against it, the blind enthusiasm of bolded words written many times over themselves, the wild confusion seeking answers.

He can’t help the resentment rising up.

But it’s not his mum’s fault. Eggsy’s always thought that she’d be hard-pressed to find a man even close to the standard of his dad if not better, and he’s always used that excuse, always had that mindset when there were any potential men around her.

That’s not the case now, is it?

Harry is--

Harry is something. And that’s an understatement.

For fuck’s sake, even _Eggsy--_

How can he be selfish? Hell, even Jamal has thought it through, fuck, even _Yvonne_ of all people. His mum deserves all the good things in life, she deserves an equal. She’s worked so hard over the years, and the one time she let herself trust someone it didn’t exactly go well. But Harry--

Harry is…

 _He’s mine_ , a part of him protests. _He’s mine, he’s mine, he’s mine_.

It’s pathetic and it’s desperate and it only serves to make him angry. What the fuck is Harry doing anyway? What right does he have to show up, to be nice and _look_ nice?

Despite the bitterness, Eggsy knows deep down that Harry would be good for his mum, he knows that he would take care of her.

On the Theory paper, there’s a little side-note that catches his attention.

 

 

Eggsy stares at it for a long moment.

Initially, with Harry’s self-righteous ‘underage’ lecture, it’s probably not gonna happen. But it makes him wonder. How far will Harry take his well-rounded gentleman shenanigans? How far will he go to get Eggsy’s approval versus playing the proper father figure that Eggsy’s mum would approve of?

Eggsy absently reaches far under his mattress for a Sugar Daddy lollipop. Peeling the wrapper, he eventually works on the candy with his tongue as he mulls the situation over. Maybe Jamal was right. Maybe it’s time to be realistic about things. What could Eggsy really have thought he’d be able to ask for his birthday? Harry didn’t even ask, really--Harry was only talking about their agreement back when Eggsy needed incentive to study for the end of the year exams.

Shit.

What was Eggsy gonna do? Ask for a fuck?

The shame of it makes him curl up on the mattress, scowling around his lollipop.

Harry probably would have forgotten about it anyway, and even if he didn’t, Eggsy has been rude as fuck, he doesn’t deserve shit.

There’s no point thinking about it, Eggsy has better things to worry about.

He reaches over for his old arse Nokia and sends a quick text to his mates about setting up a game of football soon before pulling up Lestrade’s number. Eggsy needs to weasel it out of him, if his suspect’s profile matches Cavendish, along with case details. It’s going to be more difficult with him being sober, of course, but Eggsy will find a way, he always does.

 

 

_‘Hey, that anniversary party of urs, when is it? Is it going to be at ur house? Where do u live?’_

_‘I need to google it for my mum, she’s bad w/directions &them internets’_

 

 

Eggsy turns over to stare at the ceiling, distractedly pulling out the lollipop from in between his pursed lips, letting the caramel stretch out before he folds it back over with his tongue.

What the fuck even is his life right now?

He needs a cover story. Should he have a spy film marathon for the sake of research?

While Mycroft Holmes left a number and instructions to use certain telephone booths somewhere in the city, he doesn’t really feel like it right now. He suspects that Holmes didn’t leave clearer instructions on purpose so they’d have to talk again. And Eggsy wants none of that at all. Except he knows he needs to. He needs more information, he needs more ideas.

He needs--

Eggsy frowns around his fastly diminishing lollipop, blinking at the ceiling.

Soon enough, there’s a knock, barely audible. On the front door.

Shit.

He considers ignoring it. It’s not his mum, she has a key. So does Harry, but--

Eggsy gets up, determined, and marches his way out of his room. He glances at the knife block in the kitchen but he looks away, heading for the door. He doesn’t need it. It’s fine.

Standing in front of the door for a few seconds, he considers tip-toeing to look through the peephole. As he should. But he doesn’t. It’s fine.

It might be reckless of him to just open the door, he knows, but soon enough he’s faced with Harry, and Eggsy swallows around the lollipop in his mouth. There’s a moment where they only stare at each other before Eggsy slightly closes the door, turning to pull the lollipop candy off the stick with his teeth and quickly chewing away.

He pushes his emotions down and braces himself to face him again, because it’s daylight now, and what happened last night should be forgotten.

Eggsy opens the door wider. “My mum’s still at work.”

“Yes. I’m aware.”

They’re left to stare at each other again.

Eggsy narrows his eyes. “You know what? It’s good you’re here.”

Harry looks mildly disturbed. “It...is?”

“ _Yeah_ ,” Eggsy nods, becoming overly casual. “D’you happen to know where Greg lives?”

Eyebrows slowly raising and lips already pursed, Harry slightly narrows his eyes in return. “I’m here to ask _you_ questions, Eggsy. May I come in?”

Eggsy scoffs. “And if I say no?”

“Then I’ll stay where I am, I’m perfectly fine with that,” Harry replies coolly, the polite bastard.

“What questions do you need asking? Is it gonna take long? I’m serious about the Greg thing, you know,” Eggsy makes a show of craning his head back to look at the clock.

“Let’s begin with why you need to see _Inspector Lestrade_ ,” Harry suggests neutrally.

“None of your business, guv.” He meets Harry’s gaze head on. “You ain’t my dad. Stop trying to be.”

Harry probably thinks he’s being subtle with the way he’s grinding his teeth. “That is _not_ what I am trying to do.”

“Next question?” Eggsy evades. He tries not to let it affect him, the way Harry’s taking a deep, slow breath, the kind that makes his chest heave.

“My next question requires absolute truth,” Harry begins, “And I have a sense I will not get it with how upset you are at the moment.”

“Upset?” Eggsy repeats in innocence, but he can’t help the hissing quality to his tone as he continues. “Why would I be _upset_? Do tell, _Harry_.”

“We’ve spoken about this already, I am not dating your mother, we’ve established this.”

“Yeah, but she’s going to want to,” Eggsy raises his voice, steely in his challenge, “What are we gonna do about that?”

All Harry does is look at him with brows furrowed like he doesn’t understand, and Eggsy can’t handle it anymore. “Fuck it, I’m walking into Scotland Yard if that’s what it takes.” He turns away, heading for his bedroom.

He’s halfway there when there’s a tug on his sleeve, making him stop. He turns back, ready to spew insults, but Harry’s staring down at his own hand with this stricken expression, slowly letting go.

They’re stuck in a heavy silence.

That is, until Harry quietly questions him, “What do you want?”

Eggsy stares, ignoring the real answer that’s madly repeating itself in his head, out of his control.

_You. I want you and nothing else._

He keeps his head held high. “What do you mean?”

Harry swallows. “What would make you not upset?”

Eggsy doesn’t know what to do, he’s completely frozen. Harry keeps on speaking, gentle and sincere. “I’ve a promise to keep, remember? When I asked you what you wanted back when you had your exams?”

Shit.

Shitshitshit.

“I--” Eggsy opens his mouth, completely unaware of what he’s about to say, but a vibration stops him. In the moment, there’s no other sound but that repetitive buzz, and Harry’s closing his eyes like the whole world is on his shoulders. There’s a part of Eggsy that wants to reach out, wants to make him okay, but he squashes it down. He keeps his face blank and his voice toneless.

“Pick it up, Mr. Hart. It’s probably work again.”

Harry opens his eyes but he’s staring down the floor, refusing to meet Eggsy’s gaze.

Eggsy slowly starts walking backwards, every step taking him further away from Harry. In his room, he packs up his rucksack and digs around for his untagged medical [bracelet](http://i.imgur.com/S2cn7QF.jpg). He’s had it since he was younger, but he never really used it. It wasn’t only the fact that it was too big for him then. They were supposed to get it engraved with his details, but they didn’t have the money and they just forgot about it. It also cost extra to adjust the size. So all he has is an unmarked bracelet with a bit of a secret compartment. He wears it on his right wrist and considers hiding in the room until Harry leaves, but fuck, this is his own damn flat, he’s not gonna be cornered.

When he exits and makes his way to the kitchen, he sees Harry standing back out by the slightly open front door, looking like a sorry sod despite his posh tall self. “My apologies, I didn't mean to enter your home, not when you didn't give me your permission.”

Appalled, Eggsy scrunches his face. “What the fuck, are you a vampire? Are you serious? You literally have a key. I’m even surprised you knocked.”

“That’s different. I had a feeling you were home.”

Eggsy doesn't even know what to do with that. There are way too many possibilities and meanings. One, if he wasn't home, Harry would enter. That line of thought has its own theories, including Harry _unabashedly_ waiting to spend time with his mum. Two, Harry had a _feeling_ he was home---Eggsy pushes the hope away and rolls his eyes instead as he zips up his rucksack, stocked with water and snacks.

When Eggsy makes his way to the door, he finds himself huffing in aggravation. “Are you staying or not?"

Harry only stares at him, and Eggsy tries not to whine, “If you’re staying, I’ll have to trust you to lock the door on your own.”

“...Where are you going?”

Eggsy briefly goes still before he taunts him. “Don’t you have _work_ , Mr. Hart?”

“No.”

“No?”

“My mobile ran out of battery,” says Harry, face blank.

Eggsy narrows his eyes. “I literally just heard someone calling you. Your phone did _not_ run out of battery.”

There’s an imperceptible shrug from Harry, and Eggsy annoyingly finds himself excited. “What happened to your workaholic tendencies?”

Harry keeps his gaze steady. “Someone once said I deserve a day off.”

Looking away, Eggsy mutters, “Wasn’t dinner with my mum yesterday a day off?” He doesn't wait for an answer and clicks his tongue in impatience, “Shit, seriously, are you staying or not? I need to know if I’m locking the door.”

“Lock the door," Harry tells him, and _fuck_ , Eggsy hates how he knows his own subconscious has recorded that for future reference. Fuck.

After locking the door, he immediately escapes down the hallway and down the stairs. Eggsy tries to ignore him but it’s difficult once he realises Harry's only a few steps behind. “Shit, are you gonna follow me?”

“No, there’s one way out and down, Eggsy. I’m simply going the same direction you are.”

As true as that is, it’s such bullshit.

“Fuck, _alright_ ," Eggsy relents, agitated as he turns around to stare up at him, “What questions did you have?”

He needs to shake him off once and for good, he has things to do.

Taking a few steps down until he reaches Eggsy, Harry watches him carefully. “Mycroft Holmes.”

Eggsy likes to think he does a good job of not reacting. “That’s not a question though.”

“... _Eggsy_."

It’s all Harry says.

It’s such a simple thing. It’s one word, two syllables, and it fucks him up, the way Harry says it. It’s chiding and serious and it makes Eggsy want to tell him things and maybe wank off for a million years. It’s not fair how Harry can just make him _feel_ that way, make him feel helpless.

Holding his head up high, Eggsy doesn't falter in meeting his gaze as he articulates the words, “I fuck him on the weekends.”

What Harry looks like when he suddenly loses his breath, Eggsy’s brain is never gonna forget.

Harry’s lips thin as he walks by Eggsy. “I shouldn't have asked, not when you're irrational and petty. I was never going to get a straight answer--”

“Fuck you," Eggsy sneers, “Posh blokes like a bit of rough--”

“Do _not_ antagonise me," Harry says in that quiet, dangerous way he does and-- _shit_ \--the realisation hits him then. Eggsy loves it, Eggsy _loves_ making him angry. At this point, Harry’s a step below him and that’s enough to get them nearly on the same height.

So it isn't much of a reach to lean slightly closer, staring him right in the face as he whispers in a challenge. “...Or what?”

In the heavy silence, Harry's clearly holding himself back. From what, Eggsy doesn't know, but he wants to _see_ , and so he holds out his wrists. Covered as they are with the long sleeves, Harry should know what for.

“Go on,” Eggsy urges, smiling sharp. “Hurt me.”

Harry blanches and takes a step down, gaze to the floor.

“...Why did you lie to your mother?”

_Because you’re mine. No one else gets to hurt you._

Eggsy's vehement thoughts catch him off-guard.

“Because," As much as he hold his head high, his voice falters. Harry looks at him then, and Eggsy finds himself pathetically weak. He knows he could drag this on, he knows he could use this as leverage of some sort. But the thoughts doesn't just catch him off-guard, they scare him.

And he remembers that Harry might be injured, stitches on his scalp and everything, and Eggsy fucking hurts all over, worse than he did before.

Harry’s still waiting, but Eggsy knows they can both hear the oncoming footsteps of someone from the floor below.

“Because you didn't mean to hurt me," He finally says, and he hates himself for it. He hates letting this go. He could have used this for a lot of scenarios. “And fuck, you’re right, I’m being petty, so know that if I ever bring it up again," He warns him. “Know that, and don't ever feel bad about it ‘cos that’s what I want. You didn't mean to hurt me.”

_But god, I wish you did._

Eggsy swallows and moves quickly past him.

 

»

 

On second thought, Eggsy might not go through with asking Lestrade for information. Lestrade doesn't know about the undercover thing, does he? Asking would make him more suspicious, and if one day it all gets revealed, if Eggsy fucks up and gets himself hurt, Lestrade would eventually blame himself not only for telling Eggsy about this whole thing, but for supplying him with information, unknowingly or not.

Cavendish should be at one of his posh private clubs right now. It's about three in the afternoon on a Sunday, so that would be the Athenaeum in Pall Mall. The quickest way to get there would be by tube, and he’d have to get out at Charing Cross, or Green Park if he doesn’t want to switch lines. Eggsy would just scout the area around it, cafés and all, maybe catch sight of him. Maybe that’s how Eggsy can start, maybe he’ll spill coffee on his posh expensive suit as he passes him by on the street.

As it is though, it’s too early to make contact with Cavendish.

Maybe in a few days, after Eggsy’s given in to talking with Holmes.

Fuck, there’s no point delaying it. It’s better to stop by Baker Street and make that phonecall.

In his peripherals, a cab passes him by. It stops a few metres away.

Goddammit.

Harry gets out and makes his way towards him. For fuck’s sake.

Why can’t he just let Eggsy live? Like, honestly, he has a mission to get to and he has to figure it out all on his own.

He can only take comfort in the fact that they aren’t at the main road yet so there’s no people. There’s a bunch of trees too, ones that Eggsy considers hiding behind. He’s so tired, he can’t even be angry as he wants to be.

He only makes his way under the shade of a tree as if that’s enough to make him disappear.

When Harry stops a few feet away, Eggsy sighs. “What now?”

“Would you like to go to the zoo?”

The look on Harry’s face clearly shows some muted regret of what just left his fucking mouth, and Eggsy can’t do anything but stare.

“Are you fucking--” Eggsy stops and groans, putting his hands on his face. “I can’t believe you. This is just excessive. You’re trying too hard.”

“Am I?” Harry mutters.

“The _zoo_ , really?” He mocks in disbelief, perfectly content in hiding his face.

“It shouldn’t be more than ten minutes away, it’s nearby. It closes at eighteen-hundred.”

“Look,” Eggsy starts, annoyed and frustrated, “I told you already not to feel guilty about it. That’s not why I hate you.”

After taking a deep breath, Harry exhales slowly. “Hate me tomorrow.”

Eggsy’s forced to look up, pulling his hands away. Remembering his words from yesterday, he swallows. “That’s cheating. I can’t just put it off.”

“I get the sense that you’re tired--and what a coincidence, so am I. Hate me tomorrow instead,” Harry urges calmly, “Let’s be civil for a while. Another détente as it were.”

They only stare at each other, and Eggsy just has a feeling there’s gonna be more of that. For the rest of his life, maybe.

Mulling it over, he sucks his teeth and purses his lips. What Eggsy’s about to do is dangerous, he’s not fucking stupid; Going undercover like this, unofficial, a lot of things could go wrong. But he’s going to do it. He’s going to do it because it has to be done and he’s been given the chance. Anything could happen. Doesn’t he deserve just one day of not feeling like shit?

Eventually, he swallows, holding his head high.

“Gimme a hug.”

Harry blinks at him, clearly stunned. “What.”

Eggsy refuses to be embarrassed, or at least refuses to show it. “You want a fucking détente, you gotta give me a hug, I swear to god--”

There’s an aborted move of Harry raising an arm, and Eggsy huffs in agitation and steps in closer, ignoring the heat of his face. “You’re getting there, come on.”

“...We’re in public.”

“Fuck you and your détente,” Eggsy grits his teeth, adjusting his rucksack and moving to go past him. God, what the fuck was he expecting, jesus fucking christ. He’s gone mental, that’s what it is.

A hideous noise escapes him when there’s a strong tug at his rucksack, propelling him backwards, and then he’s turning around to find himself facing Harry, inches of space between them.

 _Fuck_.

His pulse races, and Eggsy can’t breathe--because Harry’s right arm is snaking past underneath the rucksack, low around Eggsy’s waist, and Harry’s left hand is on his neck, thumbing the jawline, fingertips touching the back of his head. It’s warmer than he remembers.

 _Fuck_.

Eggsy hisses, closing the distance between them and hiding his face against the crook of Harry’s neck. The scent of him makes Eggsy want to drown, and he wouldn’t mind. He wouldn’t mind if he drowns in this.

He can feel Harry go still, but Eggsy only clutches at the back of his suit. It’s not like he’s pressing hard against Harry’s chest, he shouldn’t be hurting him too much, even if he _was_ injured.

But maybe that’s just desperate thinking, because Eggsy wants him so much, he’ll take anything. Anything at all. That doesn’t mean he doesn’t want more, that doesn’t mean he doesn’t want to be held as if Harry feels the same way.

Harry eventually relaxes, folding against him, and Eggsy can feel him sigh against his hair. And god, he misses him. He misses home, he misses Mr. Pickle and the weird house with the creepy dead insects hanging on the fucking walls, he misses everything.

Eggsy shakes with it, helpless, and he tries not to fucking break.

Fucking stupid, Harry was right. They _are_ in public. Jesus.

He can feel Harry breathing in against him, he can feel him exhale. “You’re terribly ridiculous,” Harry murmurs softly, almost as if he’s talking to himself. “What am I going to do with you?”

Burrowing himself deeper against Harry’s neck, Eggsy huffs, trying not to sound broken as he is.

“Alright, okay. Détente,” He swallows. “I’ll hate you tomorrow.”

 

\--

 

As they make their way to the zoo entrance, Harry tries not to focus on the lack of space between them. Their arms almost brush and Harry resolutely tries ignore it.

He wonders about it, if he can stop Eggsy from acting out or being angry just by offering him well-needed physical attention. Immediately, he hates himself for it. It’s simply not appropriate. That would be taking advantage of things more than he already has.

When it’s finally their turn in the queue, Harry takes his wallet out to pay for the entrance fees, but Eggsy puts a hand out to stop him. Harry can only watch as he goes to talk closely at the ticket-clerk. “Do you have student discounts?”

“Oh, yes, of course,” She answers enthusiastically, “Students pay twenty-two pounds instead of twenty-five.”

Clearly disorganised, Eggsy takes out a few of his cards, quickly laying them out to find his student ID. She does a double-take, huffing at him awkwardly. “Wow, you don’t look your age, congratulations.”

“Huh?”

“The D.O.B. on one of your cards--you’re fifteen, aren’t you? At least for another month. So you still count for the _children_ fee instead,” She tells Eggsy happily, and Harry feels the familiar sickening wave of self-revulsion. “That’ll be eighteen-fifty,” She briefly glances at Harry before turning back to whisper at Eggsy mischievously, “I doubt your father applies for the senior discount, I’m pretty sure he’s not over sixty yet. He’s fit, him.”

Harry considers leaving Eggsy his wallet and dropping off the face of this godforsaken planet.

Pretending not to have heard a single thing, Harry steps closer and hands over a few bills instead, telling her to keep the change in the need to get away quickly.

They stare at the big display [map](http://i.imgur.com/8chCrV0.jpg) in stilted silence for a few minutes.

“Where d’you wanna go?” Eggsy asks eventually.

“Wherever you wish to go.”

Eggsy’s judgmental side-eye doesn’t need to be seen, it can be _felt_. “You’re the one who wanted to go to the zoo.”

“I’ve only been here once. A very long time ago. I simply thought it was time to see it again.”

“How long ago are we talking about, exactly?”

_Long before you were ever born._

Harry takes a deep breath before evading the question. “I had heard that the Butterfly Paradise was opened last year, but I never got the chance.”

“M'kay, I figured that’s what you were after. Next to, you know, trying to get rid of the guilt and trying get me to soften up for your questions.”

Caught, Harry grits his teeth, chagrined. It’s not _entirely_ true. Harry simply wanted to spend some time with him. A moment of weakness that he’ll strive never to repeat again.

“You promised to hold off hating me until tomorrow,” Harry cautiously reminds him, and he doesn’t know whether or not he regrets it when it leads to Eggsy hooking his arm around his elbow.

“There, I don’t hate you. Honestly, I’ll do my best,” Eggsy takes a few pamphlets for Harry who dutifully takes them. “Come on, let’s go to your butterflies, it’s right next to the penguins.”

Expertly unfolding a map one-handed, Harry frowns. “Eggsy, both of those are near the exit. We should strategise this carefully.”

“But we have like two hours until this place closes,” Eggsy protests. “Is that gonna be enough for all of it?”

“We can make it,” Harry says instead. He wants Eggsy to enjoy himself and see everything. He wants Eggsy to remember. “Shall we circle around? Zigzag our way in, perhaps?”

“Okay, alright, sounds good. I wanted to see the aquarium.”

At first, Eggsy is clearly subdued, but it isn’t long until the smiles are uncontainable and the light in his eyes are bright and shining. In truth, Harry believes this aquarium leaves _much_ to be desired, and a part of him is already thinking of setting up a trip to the Sea Life London Aquarium instead.

He was there for a mission once. It’s clearly superior, much grander in scale and design. There’s actual glass tunnels there that he imagines Eggsy would love to walk through, and Harry is overwhelmed by the image in his head, of Eggsy being ecstatic, more than he already is at this very moment. Harry would hire the venue for a private dinner surrounded by the enormous glass aquarium and feed him everything he wants and--Harry forgets to breathe, chest tight.

Because it hurts.

It hurts, because he knows he won’t be able to.

As discreet as he is in his attempt to breathe normally, Eggsy frowns, turning towards him in question. Harry shakes his head lightly, but the boy persists, brows furrowing further. He seems to realise something.

“Shit. Is your arm hurting?” He asks, slowly pulling away from Harry’s right arm, and Harry instinctively blocks his progress without much thought.

“No.” He skillfully contains his shame as Eggsy watches him carefully.

“You sure?”

“Yes,” He lies.

Eggsy tentatively hooks his arm back around Harry’s and moves on. Harry has never remembered hating the feeling of relief the way he does during that moment.

“We going to the outback or nah?”

“Whatever you want, Eggsy.”

Later on, Eggsy’s absently gripping at his arm in excitement at the sight of kangaroos, and Harry keeps his mouth shut. He’s endured greater pain. It’s nothing.

“Look! An ostrich!” Eggsy babbles with bright enthusiasm.

“That’s an emu,” Harry corrects softly.

“Tsk,” Eggsy mutters lowly under his breath, excitement undeterred. “Fuck you and your emu.”

Harry can’t help but notice the people in their peripherals. “Not in front of the children, darling, please.”

Abruptly, Harry goes still alongside him, biting down on his tongue.

But the boy simply clears his throat, turning slightly red and sounding rather embarrassed. “...Damn, you right.”

Eggsy steers him away to the reptile house, marveling at the komodo dragons. Harry does as well, only a little more quietly. Most of their time goes like that, Harry being dragged around by the arm and failing at not being in awe at the intensity of Eggsy’s exhilaration.

“An actual camel-- _Wicked_ , ain’t it, Harry?”

Harry can’t find it in him to douse the boy’s excitement. Working for Kingsman has put him in close quarters with these creatures before, and unfortunately, he knows this camel won’t be the last he’ll encounter.

At the silence, Eggsy turns to him and frowns. “It’s warm, innit?” He starts to fish for something in his rucksack. “You thirsty?”

“I’m fine, Eggsy.”

Pointedly opening a water bottle and holding it out, Eggsy narrows his eyes. Harry huffs and takes it from him. What else can he do? He’s already taken it out, it would be rude otherwise. He tries to hand it back after one sip.

“Nuh-uh,” Eggsy gives him a flat look, unamused. “More. Remember your ‘dehydration’ spiel?”

Rolling his eyes, Harry drinks until Eggsy seems satisfied. When he returns it, he’s caught off-guard when Eggsy goes on to drink as well, his mouth touching the rim of where Harry’s mouth previously was, and he immediately looks away in a panic.

There’s a phantom heat on his lips that persists, and he can’t help but remember the time that their mouths touched directly.

_It wasn’t a kiss, it wasn’t a kiss._

Harry simply attributes the sensation on his mouth to the sun bearing down on them. Maybe he is a bit dehydrated after all.

Besides, he’s simply worried about the health aspect. What Eggsy’s done is simply not sanitary. Is he like this every time he shares his drink? Who else does he share his drinks with?

Harry purses his lips and halts that line of thought. It’s none of his business.

Clearly hoping for more food, the goat licks at Eggsy’s hand, prompting a half-disgusted awkward laughter.

“Have you eaten yet today?” Harry finds himself asking.

“Yeah, a bit,” Eggsy distractedly answers, moving on to pet at the sheep. Harry considers pulling his arm away so Eggsy can pet at it with both hands, but it’s not as if he’s holding it hostage. Eggsy can pull away at any moment.

”Let’s have something to eat, shall we?” Harry offers, genuinely doubting Eggsy’s answer. “And go on, wash your hands over there.”

“Ugh,” Eggsy rolls his eyes, muttering as he pulls away to follow Harry’s suggestion. “There you go again, playing daddy.”

Harry stares, mouth ungracefully parted in absolute shock. “What part of wanting you fed and sanitarily healthy constitutes as--” Harry devolves into near sputtering.

“Do you hear yourself sometimes? That’s exactly why,” Eggsy says, pointedly staring at the handkerchief that Harry’s offering before using it to dry his hands. “Among many other things.”

Harry purses his lips. “I’m still not your father.”

Honestly, how does Harry get out of this mess?

Eggsy sighs. “There’s a difference, but sure, Haz.”

Harry stops. It’s absolutely bizarre, the overwhelming sensation he gets at hearing the atrocious nickname from Eggsy’s mouth. It doesn’t help that Eggsy’s wrapping his arm around Harry’s again, which is most likely a leftover habit from when Harry was still wearing the sling.

He stares down at their interlocked arms and wonders with guilt how it ended up this way. Harry was supposed to stay away.

Granted, today is different. There’s a logical reason as to why, there’s a need for it.

He will do better next time.

“Shall we have an early dinner or would you prefer a café setting?” He asks instead.

“That depends, is that before or after the B.U.G.S. exhibit?”

Harry frowns. “There’s no need to go there.”

“Yeah, but you want to.”

“Not really.” It doesn’t matter what Harry wants, he’s here because of Eggsy.

“We’re going. It’s final,” Eggsy huffs. “And then we’re gonna go to them penguins right after, _before_ your butterflies, ‘cos I know I’m gonna need it.”

Somehow ridiculously pleased, Harry takes the chance to keenly look over the many different species of insects in the exhibit. There’s a crowd of people gathered to one side, and Harry ultimately realises what it is.

“Would you like to touch it?” He murmurs amusedly to Eggsy.

“What.”

Harry tilts his head towards them, and Eggsy’s eyes go wide at the tarantula being handed over to children by expert handlers. The grip on Harry’s arm tightens considerably before Eggsy hisses, suddenly hiding his face behind Harry’s shoulder.

Despite having been struck there by a lead pipe a few days ago, Harry doesn’t really react.

He’s more concentrated on the fact that Eggsy’s low muffled mutterings shouldn’t be audible to children. “ _Fucking_ \--Do you wanna die? Why am _I_ here? What the fuck? Do _not_ even _try_ to--I swear to fucking god, I will--Harry fucking Hart-- _Consequences--_ ”

Harry huffs, helplessly patting the hand on his arm as he steers them away, walking towards the beetles. “Breathe.”

“You don’t have to take me away--M’not a child,” Eggsy eventually grouses when he recovers, “You can go touch it if you want.”

It sometimes boggles Harry how oblivious this boy is. Of course Harry can’t simply make his way among a crowd of mostly children to pet a bloody tarantula, even if he wanted to. Not with his looming height and bespoke suit.

It worries him that Eggsy didn’t seem to make the connection during dinner last night, when Michelle and Lestrade were on the topic of serial killers and paedophiles and the hunt for victims in the park. Even if such perceptive ability will eventually lead to Eggsy doubting him and being disgusted, it’ll at least mean that he’ll be cautious. It’ll mean that Eggsy will generally be safe by being suspicious of anyone who comes near him, even if that someone is Harry.

“Oi, look, bees! _Nice_.”

Harry finds himself chuckling softly, hoping it doesn’t sound pained as he knows it to be. “Come along, Eggsy. Penguins or dinner?”

“The bees have restored me,” Eggsy claims, “I can handle dinner.”

Soon, they’re sat in the eatery with their respective meals, and Harry doesn’t know if it counts as character development that Eggsy didn’t put up too much of a fight and ordered his food with confidence. To be fair, they had stared each other down beforehand, completely bereft of words.

Eggsy shakes his head. “I still can’t believe you ordered _salad soup_.”

“It’s healthy,” Harry says, giving him a flat look instead. It’s either that or explaining that he bit down so hard when he was electrocuted a few days ago that his teeth are still sore. Granted, being around Eggsy has made him grit his teeth more than once since then, amongst many other physical causation of pain. It really can’t be helped.

Eggsy sighs. “Here, have some of mine.”

Harry can’t really do anything to stop him from putting food on his side-plate. It’s not as if it’s being forced against his mouth, the choice to eat it is ultimately his.

At Eggsy’s expectant stare, however, Harry sighs. “Eggsy…”

“It’s the ol’ banger and mash, what’s not to like?”

Harry rolls his eyes and suffers, chewing the food slowly. “Mmm.”

“Yeah?”

“Mhm.”

Eggsy snorts. “You’re really good at that--Pretending.”

The atmosphere shifts, and Harry keeps his silence, apprehensive.

“Relax,” Eggsy tells him, looking him straight in the eye, absently twirling his fork. “There’s, what, seven hours till midnight?”

The grim reminder of reality makes him lose what’s left of his appetite. Eggsy has said it like they’ll be spending the rest of those seven hours together, and not as if Harry will be sending him home soon, safe before Michelle gets back from work.

“Here’s the thing, Harry,” Eggsy begins, not meeting his gaze. “Your questions? I’ll answer them.”

Harry waits, because he’s not entirely a fool, as much as he constantly feels that way when he’s with this boy.

“...If you answer mine, that is. Truthfully.”

There’s a distant thought, whether or not Morgause would call this whole situation a regression. Harry hates lying to Eggsy, but he’s already preparing himself to keep his face blank throughout this interrogation. Because that’s what it is. That’s what it feels like. Even though he acknowledges that bizarre fact, he still can’t help but be in awe of him.

“Is that so?”

“You’ve made a great effort,” Eggsy shrugs, “I can admit that. Maybe I think you deserve a bit of a break. Maybe I think you deserve a bit of reward.”

“What are your questions?” Harry begins, neutral.

Eggsy watches him carefully. “You and my mother. It’s not exactly a question. I will need you to explain, regardless.”

There’s something fascinating about his demeanour and the way he speaks, but Harry can’t quite his finger on it.

“We are not dating,” Harry stalls, but with the way Eggsy tilts his head, it’s as if he sees right through him.

“Yes, we’ve established that, Harry. Do go on.”

“Elaborate,” Harry counters.

“Your...interest. Is it still the guilt? Why do you do what you do? Why are you involved?”

Harry carefully puts his fork down. He can’t be gripping at it like a lifeline. Instead, he hides his hands out of sight, placing them flat on his lap instead.

“It is partly the guilt, yes.” Harry nods.

“However…?”

“Your mother has been through...quite a lot.”

“She has,” Eggsy agrees.

“It’s not only about…Mr. Baker.”

Eggsy tilts his head curiously, and Harry sighs. This has to be executed carefully, he can’t make a mistake. One wrong thing and Eggsy could blow it out of proportion.

“I care about you,” Harry finds himself admitting, and he immediately clears his throat at the severe discomfort that overtakes him. Eggsy’s face is blank but he knows he doesn’t believe him. Harry doesn’t know how to prove it in a way that’ll keep his remaining sanity intact. “I care about your future,” Harry adds.

“Uh-huh.”

“Your mother is crucial to your well-being. She’s important to you.”

“Yes.”

“As I’ve said she’s been through many things over the years, and most of them she’s done alone. It’s admirable.”

“...And what, that...turns you on?”

Harry gives him an unimpressed look. “ _No_ , Eggsy. Her psychology has evolved to where I believe...” He doesn’t know how to say it in a way that doesn’t offend. This boy loves his mother very much, if anything he’s overprotective.

Eggsy raises his eyebrows, waiting.

“There’s a reason why she’s let Mr. Baker into your lives. I’d like to prevent it from happening again.”

Eggsy huffs. “And what reason is that? How are you going to stop it from happening? She thought she fell in love, that’s not her fault--”

“No,” Harry concedes calmly, “But if she had better standards--”

_Shit._

_Buggering fuck._

Eggsy’s shoulders square and Harry braces himself for a scene.

“You don’t _understand_ ,” Eggsy begins, low, a deep seated anger brewing. “Dean was _nice_. That’s how he pulled her in. He was nice, and he was charming, and he was helpful and he was there when she had problems.”

“I surmised as much,” Harry yields. It’s true, and if Harry had never interfered, it possibly could have gone on for years and years until Dean Baker’s charm and apparent kindness ultimately burned out. True colours aside, by then it would have been too late for Michelle to have left him. He could have taken over the finances and had her dependent, if not emotionally abused with a case of Stockholm Syndrome. And Eggsy--Eggsy is loyal. Especially to his mother. He’d stay to protect her.

Harry doesn’t like to think of that universe in where Eggsy had to suffer under Dean’s rule more than he already has. Two years has done enough damage.

He swallows and goes on to tread carefully, “With insight and better experience, if not better sense of self-worth, your mother might have not fallen prey to his...charms, as it were.”

 _She wouldn’t have settled for less_ , He doesn’t say.

Eggsy narrows his eyes, and Harry remains non-combative. “Your mother needs friendship, she needs support--from somewhere other than her own child. She’s been isolated for so long, concentrating on the means to survive, that it might be difficult for her to function properly in social settings and relationships, platonic or otherwise.”

For a moment, Eggsy only moves the food around his plate with his fork. “If that’s true…you’re going through a lot of trouble.”

“Would you like some of my meal?” Harry finds himself offering.

“That ain’t a meal--I don’t know what that is, but that ain’t a meal.” Eggsy gives him the evil eye. “And I might not like myself, but I love myself _enough_ , thanks.”

Silence settles again, and Harry still gets the sense that Eggsy has some doubts regarding his explanation. He sighs, preparing himself for the loathsome vulnerability.

“I took your father away,” He begins, sincere. “You were right, that’s on me. Can’t you see that everything I’ve done has been about trying to repay him?”

“So it’s the guilt then,” Eggsy nods as if it’s all confirmed.

_No, you stupid brilliant boy._

“I care about you,” Harry admits again like it’s been ripped out from him, avoiding his eyes. From his peripherals, he can see him shaking his head.

“It’s not your fault,” says Eggsy. “I think you need to hear it from me, so look at me-- _Harry_ ,” Eggsy utters, low, “Look at me.”

Harry looks up to meet his gaze, and he finds himself frozen at the intensity.

“I need you to listen to me, because I will be angry again, whether that’s anytime soon or years down the line, it’s inevitable. I need you to understand,” Eggsy leans in closer and Harry mirrors him without any thought. The words are quiet, but no less powerful in their own right. It’s clear and it’s insistent and Eggsy’s gaze doesn’t waver. “There will be a time when I’ll be angry and hurt, and I’ll want to hurt you back in the _worst_ way possible. I’ll say things I won’t mean, as much as it feels like I mean them, it won’t be true--I need you to understand this: It was not your fault.”

Helpless, Harry can only stare back at him.

“My father signed up for that life, he knew the risks, he took it, Harry. He lost.”

That’s not true, Harry should have noticed the bomb. It was his responsibility, he was supposed to be the experienced operative leading by example. It was such a basic _simple_ thing. It was elementary, but Harry had missed it, and Lee had bravely sacrificed himself for everyone without a second thought.

“-- _Harry--_ I miss him sometimes,” Eggsy admits quietly, “But it’s the idea of him, it’s the idea of growing up having a dad, because I don’t remember him as much as I’d like to anymore. It’s that regret of what could be, but it’s done. There’s nothing anyone can do about it, Harry. Stop being guilty, you’ve done enough. You don’t have to feel like you owe us anything,” Eggsy insists, brows furrowed. “I’ve told you before, and I’ll tell you again, you don’t have to stick around because of the guilt. You’re a free man.”

The deep breath that Harry takes isn’t even enough to quell the emotions, devastating in their harsh realities.

Because that’s not true. Harry won’t ever be free for as long as he loves Eggsy Unwin.

He swallows back the guilt at the silent admission.

“Mycroft Holmes,” He utters, holding his gaze. “What is his business with you?”

Eggsy blinks. “That was quick.”

“Eggsy…”

Pulling back and crossing his arms, Eggsy huffs. “What, you think no one will want me enough to pay for my services?”

Why are teenagers so changeable? It’s absolutely ridiculous. Harry’s not made for this.

Mycroft wouldn’t do such a thing, because that would mean he’s liable to the same things he’s accused Harry of. Nevermind the fact that old men aren’t Eggsy’s type, because why would it be? He’s busy with Yvonne Jansen, if not Janine Fernandez as well--people his own age. Rightfully so.

He forces himself to be calm. “I answered your questions.”

“Well, I wasn’t done,” Eggsy retorts.

Harry rolls his eyes. “Proceed, if you must.”

Eggsy watches him, leaning back against his seat. “Are you okay?”

Harry blinks at him, off-kilter. He legitimately doesn’t know what that questions is for, and he attempts to figure it out.

“Your injuries, Harry,” Eggsy tells him, and Harry feels his own expression go blank.

How in the _world_ does he know about that? Harry has been doing this job long enough that he doesn’t even flinch when he’s about to get hit, he’s been doing this long enough to keep moving the same way he always does, with smooth grace despite all the injuries he’s gained as if they weren’t there to begin with. Harry has prided himself in that.

How in the bloody hell does he know?

Unless, of course, he’s referring to the stitches in his head, which Eggsy only noticed because of the change in his hairstyle. Admittedly perceptive and clever and brilliant of the boy, but really, what else could Harry have done? Worn a hat? Would that really be any less suspicious?

“I’m fine,” Harry answers belatedly, ignoring his racing pulse as he lightly touches the stitches on his scalp for show.

“I’m not just talking about that. I need to know where _not_ to hit you if I ever lash out. That just wouldn’t be fair.”

“You can hit me anywhere you’d like,” Harry responds, unthinking.

Eggsy purses his lips. “Nevermind, it’s probably better I don’t know--Though I already have an idea, but that’s neither here nor there. How about sleep? D’you get enough of that? I did mean it when I said you look like shit.”

“Thank you for your concern, but I’ve had worse,” Harry tells him sincerely. “Anything else?”

Eggsy stares at him for a very long time.

When he finally opens his mouth, dread claws its way inside Harry, but Eggsy suddenly stops, snapping his mouth shut. He clears his throat and shrugs. “May I have dessert?”

“Of course.”

There’s a brief pause of nothing and Harry frowns, confused. “Is that it?”

“Yeah. Your turn.”

Next to the relief is suspicion, but Harry powers through. “Mycroft Holmes.”

“He came to the bookshop. I met him there,” Eggsy answers easily.

Harry braces himself for the worst. “And?”

Eggsy shrugs again. “Odd bloke. I remembered him from prom night, talking to you.”

“And?”

“He offered me a job.”

Harry’s jaw clenches, mind mulling over all the possibilities--But it doesn’t make sense. “What job?”

“Doesn’t matter. I told him I wasn’t interested. He left.”

“And yet you met again in Covent Garden,” Harry counters calmly.

Eggsy nods, shrugging, and Harry legitimately doesn’t know what to do, because he’s a trained operative but he can’t entirely tell if Eggsy Unwin is lying, at least about this issue.

It’s terrifying.

But maybe that’s what Mycroft wants, to make it all seem like there’s something going on when there truly isn’t, resulting in Harry’s deeper spiral into madness. Maybe it’s all about appearances. That's something Mycroft would do. The man doesn't like to personally get his hands dirty. 

Can Harry risk it?

“I’m going to need you to explain further, Eggsy. What job?”

He observes him carefully, but Eggsy’s brows furrow, accompanied by a preposterous pout. “Clerical stuff, paper pushing. _As if_ I’d suffer that, and from some bloke I don’t really know--I met him again at the studio, and it _was_ a bit odd, so I questioned him about it. Worst mistake of my life,” He mutters, unaware of Harry’s well-hidden hysteria, “Ended up stuck in the _most boring_ conversation known to humankind--but really, the pompous git was just there to talk to one of his assistants,” Eggsy shrugs, eventually smirking. “You know the one? The one who I thought was your wife? Have you seen her out of them power suits? She’s _real_ fit, in them tight yoga leggings--”

Harry has to look away in extreme discomfort. “Alright.”

“Yeah?”

“Go get your dessert, I’d like to see the butterflies now. Before or after your penguins, it matters not.”

“I’ll get it from one of the outside kiosks. Come on, let’s get to your butterflies.”

 

\--

 

Jesus fuck. Harry actually believes him.

Eggsy doesn’t know if it’s because he’s just that good or Harry trusts him and he’s taking advantage of that trust. He had a feeling being weird and sexual about it was gonna throw him off. Besides, Harry wasn’t completely telling the truth either. That sort of voided Eggsy’s agreement and condition to be honest right back.

Biting into his ice-cream sandwich, Eggsy watches him from outside the massive curved structure that’s half tent and half glasshouse. It contains all kinds of plants and butterflies. The worst part is that the looming entrance is literally half of a [inflatable](http://i.imgur.com/TYsmSEY.jpg) caterpillar in bright colours.

Harry always has this mild expression on his face as a default when he’s out in public, but Eggsy takes note of the subtle way he genuinely looks pleased walking through Butterfly Paradise. There’s a keen interest there, and Eggsy takes a moment to acknowledge the fact that he’s fallen for such a weirdo. God.

Eggsy considers mourning for his life in general, but a butterfly flies around Harry in circles and it’s just so fucking _unreal_. It’s not fair. Eggsy ridiculously gets the strong urge to take a photo. But he doesn’t have a camera, he only has the Nokia from two thousand and one. So Eggsy hurriedly finishes his ice cream and focuses on Harry, desperately memorising the awkward furrowing of his brows, the slight lopsided smile, barely noticeable.

Fucking hell, this is gay as shit. But Eggsy promised not to hate him today, so he tamps it down and takes out Harry’s handkerchief from his pocket to makes sure his hands are clean before heading inside.

“Ah, Eggsy, there you are.”

“Why are you so awkward?” He huffs, trying to ignore his pounding heartbeat as he casually hooks his arm around his elbow. “It’s ‘cos they're alive, innit?”

Harry purses his lips and huffs back at him. Holy shit, he’s actually embarrassed.

“It’s true!” Eggsy crows. “Amazing.”

As they walk around, he lets Harry go on and lecture him about butterfly species, their _peculiar_ behaviours and whatnot. Eggsy responds properly, asking questions every now and then, mostly trying not to think about what’ll happen tomorrow. Things will be different. Eggsy should make use of the time they have now, because he’s going to be focusing on his undercover work for fuck’s sake, Eggsy deserves this. Eggsy deserves to be happy just for once.

A butterfly lands on his shoulder and Eggsy tries not to die. Better yet, he tries not to kill it. Harry would be disappointed.

By the third time it happens, Eggsy’s used to it and the world hasn’t ended yet.

He eventually notices some tourists on the other aisle. The reason why he knows they’re tourists is because the fit blonde lady in a nice dress has a large fancy sun hat on, heavily tinted sunglasses, and a _scarf_. It’s summer for fuck’s sake. Either that or she’s trying to be inconspicuous for some reason. Also, she’s taking photographs with a polaroid while the suited man next to her is doing the same thing with a digital camera, the sling wrapped around his neck. A map for the tube system sticks out of the large floral bag he’s slung over his arm, which he’s most likely carrying for her ‘cos he’s whipped.

“Eggsy, you’ve been carrying that rucksack around all day, would you like me to take care of it for a while?”

“Huh?” Eggsy distractedly responds, keeping an eye on the tourists, “Nah, I got it.”

Eggsy makes a point to stay aware of them until they’re making their way to the exit.

“Shit, I need to take a piss.”

Harry only rolls his eyes and pulls his arm away. “Go on.”

Eggsy catches up to them, appearing properly awkward and nonthreatening, slightly out of breath.

“Hey, hi. I’m sorry, I can’t help but notice you were taking photos. D’you happen to take any of ours? Sorry, I don’t have a camera and we barely see each other--me and my dad, I mean.”

The two of them glance at each other before turning back to Eggsy. He legitimately hopes they understand English. “I’ll even pay,” He starts palming for his shitty mess of a wallet.

“...Your dad?” The lady eventually says, heavily accented and hesitant.

“Err…”

What else is Eggsy supposed to say? Isn’t that how they look to most people?

Well, next to the other thing.

The bloke snorts at the lady. “See? You owe me twenty krona. Such a dirty little mind, my sister. Forgive her,” He tells Eggsy before nudging his sister with an elbow, “Go on, give it to him.”

Partly embarrassed and largely annoyed, she begins searching through the stacks of photos in her hand.

The brother frowns and starts looking through his digital camera too. “I think I might have some here as well. Would you like me to send them to your email?”

“Yes, please,” Eggsy responds politely, typing his email into the bloke’s offered mobile. Bless the Scandinavians.

The lady eventually holds out a thin stack of polaroids rather awkwardly.

Eggsy fishes through his wallet. “How much?”

Shaking her head insistently, she doesn't meet his gaze, quietly offering them at him.

“Don’t worry about it,” The brother laughs, putting an arm around her and steering her away.

Eggsy’s left to stare at them in awe before looking down at the polaroids, fanning them out. There’s gotta be like five in here. Two of them is of Harry alone, photogenic as fuck even in candid shots. Only one of them is of Eggsy, and the remaining ones are of the two of them together.

Honestly, just staring at them is embarrassing because they’re too close, arms interlocked, and the way Eggsy’s looking at him while Harry’s focused on a butterfly is just plain cringe-worthy. There’s a photo that’s reversed in description, but Harry’s clearly staring at the butterfly on Eggsy’s shoulder.

Fucking hell. No one else is ever gonna see these photos. Eggsy’s gonna hide them and lock them away in his journal or something once he gets home. For now, he just safely stows them away in his rucksack.

When he goes back to Harry’s side, they don’t stay there for long and ultimately move on to the penguins.

Eggsy’s legitimately having the time of his life. He’s always wanted to see them in person. Funny little things. For his ninth birthday, he and his mum were about to go this zoo. Except they were a few quid short on the electric bills. Eggsy made the decision for both of them by throwing a tantrum and staying home all day.

Anyway, it’s lucky that he and Harry got the front view. Propping an arm over the ledge and resting his cheek, Eggsy peers at the penguins and stupidly wishes he could join them. The pool looks pretty deep, he’d love to swim again. Probably not wise with the penguins though. He huffs.

Harry’s been pretty quiet for a while, but Eggsy’s too lazy to look. Pretty comfortable from where he is, he has to work up to it.

Mindlessly moving his thumb in circles on Harry’s suited arm, he eventually tries for a conversation, mumbling. “Pretty cute, innit?”

Realising how lame that sounds, he finally turns to Harry who holds his gaze for a split second before looking away. “Mmm.”

Eggsy frowns. “What is it?”

Harry clears his throat. “What’s your business with Lestrade?”

Looking back to the penguins again, Eggsy worries at how easily the lies spill from his mouth. “He was thinking of getting a pet for the fam. He mentioned it once, and since then I’ve been bothering him to take me along when he has the time to look around.” Eggsy sighs, unhappy with himself. To anyone it could probably pass off as wistful. “Hope he gets a dog.”

Harry’s offer is quiet and somewhat spontaneous. “I can take you.”

Eggsy huffs, his smile turning sad.

_Things go back to normal after today, you numpty._

“M’tired,” He murmurs instead.

Really, what’s Harry gonna do? Buy him a dog?

“Is there anywhere else you wish to go?” Harry asks.

“Well, there’s still the rest of the zoo across the street, we’d have to go through the tunnel. Pretty sure we don’t have time for that though, which sucks, because I think I would've liked to see you next to a peacock for comparison,” Eggsy snorts.

Harry looks offended. “What does that even mean?”

“It _means_ you’re a show-off, but hey, whatever,” Eggsy tries to mollify him, because Harry’s doing that thing where it might just be a simple pursing of the lips to anyone else, but to Eggsy that shit has like seven versions and this one’s really more like a dignified pout. Eggsy sighs, trying not to sound sentimental about it. “Wherever you want, Harry. I don’t mind.”

“Shall we stop by the giftshop?”

Eggsy rolls his eyes, shaking his head. “Okay.”

On the way there, they come across an enthusiastic wedding party taking photos in front of the animal carousel. Harry and Eggsy both have to stop so they don’t interrupt, but Eggsy finds himself watching as they do stupid shit like climbing over the metal barriers to [kiss](http://i.imgur.com/TbOTyE2.jpg) and other sappy shit until he has to look away, feeling sick.

“Hey,” Eggsy manages as they walk past them, “With everything that you’re doing for my mum, don’t you think that she’ll fall for you?”

Harry sighs. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

 _She already has_ , he doesn’t tell him. He’ll figure it out eventually, the repressed fuck.

In the giftshop, they browse around, and Eggsy narrows his eyes when he catches Harry watching him. Again.

“I don’t want anything.”

Harry purses his lips and Eggsy holds back a long-suffering groan. When Harry holds out a penguin [plush-toy](http://i.imgur.com/xrfTMoJ.jpg), Eggsy gives in to sighing. “I’m too old for those.”

Raising an eyebrow, Harry carefully reminds him, “What about Galahad?”

Eggsy doesn’t sputter, but it’s a near enough thing. “I--You-- _You’re_ the one who put him in the trolley! Galahad’s a one-time thing, he’s special.”

Harry offers the penguin closer, and god it’s cute as hell--the penguin, not Harry--but Eggsy resists the temptation. “Galahad’s the only one for me, but thanks.”

At that, Harry’s expression turns strange; awkward and maybe a little forlorn.

Tsk, if he’s internally having the ‘he’s grown up so fast’ moment, Eggsy’s gonna kill him.

Moving on to scrutinise other shit in the shop, Eggsy considers that maybe he should let Harry buy him something. Either for old time’s sake or because he has a feeling they’ll never leave unless Eggsy lets him.

Eventually, he decides on a pack of sticky notes with small minimalist animal silhouettes on them.

Once he realises that there’s a three-in-one deal on stationery, he gets the smaller box on the side, full of tiny sticky notes _shaped_ like butterflies--which is gay as fuck, but it’s not like Eggsy will be using them in public anytime soon. Maybe he can give them to his mum. They’re literally smaller than the cap of a water bottle, Eggsy doesn’t even know what they _can_ be used to be for, except maybe bookmarks. While he’s at it, he grabs the magnetic kitchen meerkat [notepad](http://i.imgur.com/wplntHD.jpg).

When he hands all of it to Harry, he actually looks _pleased_ , and Eggsy just wants to roll his eyes for a million years as if that could lessen the ridiculous amount of fondness that he has for this man.

As they ring it up on the till, Eggsy takes note of everything else Harry has bought. Along with the massive book on butterflies, there are five mugs, a variety of postcards, and the cursed plush-toy penguin.

Eggsy narrows his eyes. “Is there someone else that’s supposed to be for?”

Harry sniffs, mumbling under his breath, inaudible, somehow managing to be dignified about it all.

There’s no use being jealous, so he tries not to think any more about it. “I don’t even know what that means, but okay. Sure.”

Five minutes before closing time, they exit the zoo, and Eggsy suddenly finds himself blurting out, “Can we walk home?”

Harry stares at him, clearly trying to figure him out.

Eggsy babbles unthinkingly. “Unless that’s too much. It’s one and a half miles, and you’re like, what, in your late forties?”

Harry’s face goes eerily blank. “...It wasn’t long ago when you were berating me for running two and a half hours nonstop.”

 _I know_ , Eggsy thinks in a panic. Why can’t he help being manipulative? He looks at the ground, chagrined.

“Come, let me walk you home.”

They walk on, and he hates feeling bad about it. But he’s still technically not breaking his promise. He’s not hating Harry right now, he’s hating himself. Harry’s injured, and even then he’s still polite as fuck, doing as Eggsy wants. At least it’s not that warm out anymore, and there’s a lot of trees as far as the eye can see. There’s not much people around but the occasional cars going to and from the zoo.

Still, he can’t help burning in shame, because Eggsy shouldn’t have brought up the age. Jesus fuck. He shouldn’t bring it up _ever_.

“Your grades from the end-of-the-year exams,” Harry begins good-naturedly, because he’s fucking good like that, and Eggsy’s mum is gonna be the luckiest woman in the world, he swears it. “Have they come in yet?”

“No, not yet,” Eggsy mumbles, hands clutching at the straps of his rucksack. “Should be in a week or two though.”

They fall into silence as they walk on.

“...Eggsy.”

“Mmm?”

“Did you enjoy yourself?”

The leaves and branches of the trees rustle at the light wind, and Eggsy’s content to watch them for a moment before he evades the question. “Did you?”

“...I’m afraid so, yes,” Harry answers quietly.

He glances at him, but Harry’s looking somewhere afar, so Eggsy lets the sad smile form on his face. He takes the chance to hook his arm around his elbow, and does his best not to give into holding his hand instead, because that’s not allowed.

“Same. Thanks.”

Selfishly, he wishes the journey was longer than one and a half miles. They’re walking pretty slow too, so it’ll be about forty-five minutes. Even then, it’s not enough.

“So, them bees, huh?” Eggsy tries, but Harry humours him and lectures on about it. He could listen to him talk for hours. Maybe for the rest of his life.

It’s been a long day, so it’s only natural for him to lean slightly closer when they’re waiting for the light to change across the road, the side of his head brushing against Harry’s shoulder. “Hey, speaking of honey, you ever tried honey whisky?”

He doesn’t have to look to know that Harry’s frowning. “I haven’t.”

Scrunching his face in disbelief, Eggsy pulls back to scrutinise him. “You can’t be serious. With all that shit in your bar?”

“I am. Why?”

Eggsy shrugs. “Just wanted to know what it tasted like,” He finds himself smacking his lips, trying to imagine it, “If didn’t taste like your shite whisky, if it was actually sweet like honey.”

“My whisky tastes fine.”

“Bullshit,” Eggsy retorts, unfiltered at this point in the day, “I think you drink it ‘cos you hate yourself.”

Harry actually chuckles, soft, and Eggsy does a double-take, but it’s already gone.

Narrowing his eyes, Eggsy starts with a suggestion. “You know what? You should get one. Honey whisky, I mean. See if it tastes good.”

“What would you get out of it? Will you break into my house just to steal it?”

Damn, he’s good.

“Come on,” He tries not to whine, because that would defeat the point of trying not to be seen as a child. “I’m turning sixteen in what, a month? You can give it to me, it’ll be legal.”

“No, it won’t,” Harry replies, far too serious, “Even at age sixteen, alcohol is only legal if accompanied by an adult over eighteen _and_ with a proper meal.”

Eggsy gawks at him, rendered absolutely speechless.

Harry continues on, “Also, I believe the term ‘alcohol’ in this case is only restricted to beer, wine, or cider.”

Eggsy sputters in absolute incredulity. “What, are you a fucking lawyer too? That’s so specific, how do you even know the legal rights of sixteen year olds?”

Squinting in the distance, Harry huffs. “I was once given a pamphlet by a self-righteous teenager who was fond of loopholes.”

It’s so fucking ridiculous to be _burning_ with jealousy, but what the fuck? What teenager? Was this Yvonne? If it was, she’d have bragged about it by now. Clearly, it’s not her. More importantly, why were they giving Harry a pamphlet about what was legal at age sixteen?

In a fit of heavy irritation, he pulls his arm away from Harry’s. He genuinely tries to force his hackles down and purses his lips, debating whether or not to ask.

“Eggsy, if it truly means that much, I’ll tell you what it tastes like,” Harry offers, frowning.

“Fuck you, that’s not the same,” He hisses, baring his teeth. “ _Or_ you could take me to dinner when I turn sixteen, problem solved.”

At the outburst, Eggsy suddenly feels ashamed, but this is his chance, and he’s gonna take it. “Remember your promise about giving me what I want? What if you wait till my birthday?” He doesn’t know why he’s trying too hard, he could easily just go over to Yvonne’s. But he supposes it’s the principle of the thing.

“What you want for your birthday is separate from the previous arrangement.”

“But it’s what I want,” He counters immediately, not even taking in Harry’s reply. “Give it to me.”

Harry stops in his walk and sighs. Eggsy stops as well, turning to face him.

“You want honey whisky for your birthday?” Harry asks for clarification, watching him carefully.

 _No, I want you to fuck me but we can’t all get what we want._ The thought almost makes Eggsy flush, but he remains adamant. “Yeah.”

“Shall I ask your mother for permission?”

Eggsy groans to the sky. “This isn’t the Victorian era, bloody hell, _Harry_.”

He walks on, sulking. But it doesn’t take Harry long to catch up in a casual stroll. “I’ll think about it.”

Bloody wanker. Why does Eggsy like him?

 

\--

 

Unfortunately, time passes by faster than Harry would like, and soon enough, they’re arrive. Having opened the front door, Eggsy turns to him, confused.

“Aren’t you coming in?”

“I was under the impression that you were exhausted.”

“Well, yeah, but…” Eggsy trails off, taking the rucksack off and setting it down inside.

“Your mother will be home soon,” Harry adds. He’d rather not face her today. The more often he shows up, the more suspicious he’ll seem to her.

“Yeah, but isn’t that you want?” Eggsy frowns.

Harry shakes his head, taking out Eggsy’s items from the shop bag and handing them over. It’s truly a pity that the hours until midnight--until Eggsy hates him again--will go to waste.

But he supposes the few hours they had together shall have to be enough. It’s something Harry will get used to, spending less and less time with him until he can carry on without a second thought.

“...Harry?”

At the realisation that he has a grip on the items, he immediately releases, letting Eggsy take his things and set it somewhere inside. Harry briefly considers leaving without a goodbye, but his feet won't move and Eggsy’s already returned, leaning against the doorway with his arms crossed. “You sure you don’t wanna come in?”

“...Yes.”

The silence between them grows, and the air is thick with it that Harry thinks he’s not breathing as properly as he should be. “Well--”

“Get some sleep, yeah?" Eggsy holds his head high. “And good sleep too, not like four hours ‘cos _‘military training, Eggsy_ ’."

Harry huffs, the day’s exhaustion catching up with him. He didn't sleep well, having constantly debated whether or not to read Mycroft’s one hundred and twenty-nine paged threat hidden in his office drawer, in addition to all the problems he has to deal with. “Four hours is plenty of time,” He finds himself saying. Maybe he can’t simply help giving into a bit of banter for old time’s sake, “In fact, some studies even suggest it’s why military personnel--”

“You could kill people for a living--day in, day out--you still need sleep,” Eggsy cuts him off immediately, serious in his lecture.

“Well, I like to think I manage.”

Suddenly, the silence is too loud that Harry thinks he can hear _ringing_ in his ears. The more he blinks, the more he finds that the world doesn’t seem real. Nor does he.

It’s then that he begins to question reality.

With dread, he considers that he might just be dreaming.

It would make sense--how Eggsy could possibly set aside his hate and enjoy spending time with Harry as if that was _viable_. Eggsy wouldn’t do that, would he? This being a dream, it’s the only reason why Harry would be foolish enough to let his guard down and say such a thing.

Harry opens his mouth, but nothing comes out.

It _must_ all be a dream.

Because Eggsy's expression remains unchanged, unreadable but patient. And Harry might have just unwittingly admitted what he does for a living, so why--

Eggsy sighs, gaze moving to the floor. “Can I get a hug?”

Harry stares, heartbeat pounding in his ears.

This can’t be anything but a dream. Because Eggsy is brilliant, he’s very smart, surely he’s made _some_ connections when it came to Harry’s job. Even if he didn’t, what Harry has said has surely raised some questions. But Eggsy only stares at him, expectant.

And maybe that’s how he can combat this. Maybe fighting it begins in the subconscious. Maybe he needs to learn to control himself even in his dreams, and deny himself that which he pathetically yearns for.

Still, even in the possibility that all of this might not be real, he can’t simply say ‘no’ outright, he can’t bring himself to be cruel. Not in this moment.

“Hmm, well, that’s...I don’t know, _can_ you--” Harry barely gets halfway and Eggsy’s already groaning and rolling his eyes.

“That’s it. I’m done,” He scowls, mulish, _pouting_ , turning back to go inside the flat, “Bye.”

Harry doesn’t know what the bloody hell he’s doing as he watches his own hand make a grab for him, turning Eggsy around, and the next thing he knows is that he’s closing his eyes, burying his face against Eggsy’s hair.

It’s _mortifying_.

Because he’s not in control, because he’s pitiful, because it’s devastating that Eggsy doesn’t smell enough like him anymore.

He’s at a loss, but Eggsy’s hands are clutching at the back of his suit before one makes its way to the back of Harry’s head. It makes him relax slightly until he’s helplessly folding in even more, hiding against his neck now.

Why does this boy ruin him?

Harry’s losing touch with reality, and he finds that a part of him prefers it. If it means he can justify this, justify feeling his touch, the fingers gently running through his hair, then yes. It horrifies him to admit it to himself, it mixes with the dread and the shame and the guilt.

He’s missed this, he realises. More than he thought he ever did. More than he thought he ever would.

And this is very, _very_ dangerous. The door is open and Harry is partly outside in the hallway, visible from the balcony if anyone chanced a look. There’s neighbours as well. There are several things that could go wrong at any moment.

It’s reckless, _reckless_ , **_reckless_**.

But Eggsy’s cheek is against his temple, and his breath is against Harry’s hair as he huffs, “Take care, yeah?”

Harry only breathes in deeper, nodding minimally.

Today is a pass. It won’t happen again. He’ll be stronger. He’ll try harder.

He will regain his self-control. Because Harry is an operative, he has been for a long time, and one of the reasons why he’s made it this far is because he gets the job done through sheer will and self-control in addition to his skillset.

He _will_ succeed.

“And you, yes?” Harry murmurs.

Eggsy hums, and for once, Harry knows with an absolute certainty that it’s a lie.

He grits his teeth. “Eggsy…”

But the boy’s already lightly patting his back, signalling an end to this exchange. “Goodbye, Harry.”

Starting to pull away, Harry murmurs against Eggsy’s temple, “Goodbye, Eggsy.”

He steps back, not meeting his eyes. And he doesn’t look back as he begins to make his way to the stairs.

“Hey!” Eggsy calls out, and Harry resents him, but he turns anyway. Eggsy’s taking a quick swig from a full water bottle before hastily closing it, and Harry’s reflexes immediately intercepts the bottle when it’s thrown at him.

He stares down at it, speechless.

“It’s hot out,” Eggsy announces. “Don’t die.”

Harry can’t even reply by the time Eggsy shuts the door.

 


	25. 24

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eggsy makes contact with his target + Harry is a mess--as always
> 
> ...and Michelle...  
> well...im sorry mum

 

Eggsy sleeps for hours, but he wakes early.

Because he _slept_ early. The way the day before ended, he didn’t want to think about anything else. He only took another shower and laid in bed, staring at the ceiling and clutching Galahad until he dozed off.

Today is a new day. He has things to do.

He finds and prepares a smaller rucksack, puts on his sweats, and goes to the kitchen for a quick breakfast.

His mum wakes up halfway, shuffling to where he is and ruffling his hair before ransacking the fridge.

“Any plans today, mum?” Eggsy starts conversationally. He feels like an adult.

“Mmm, no. Just going to work.”

“Mmm--Oh yeah, Lestrade got back to me about the anniversary party. It’s next weekend. Enough time for you to ask for a day off. Or maybe two so you can find a dress or something.”

His mum blinks at him owlishly. “You interested in going?”

“Me? Nah. Aren’t you?”

She snorts. “I told you. I can’t dance.”

Eggsy finds himself watching her as she goes on to make breakfast. And he finally understands what Harry said the other day. It feels like she’s making an excuse not to go. Like maybe she’s nervous.

The party’s gonna be full of people her own age. She should be there, having fun. It doesn’t have to be about dancing, she could just go around chatting, making friends. She needs those. Harry was right.

His mum has worked so hard over the years that maybe she forgot how to enjoy herself with other people. And that’s fucking _sad_. The guilt Eggsy feels makes him stare down at his instant oatmeal as he braces himself for what he’s about to say.

“Ask Hart.”

“Hmm?”

Eggsy finishes up his oatmeal. “Ask him to teach you.”

Ignoring the stare, he stands and makes his way over to wash the dishes.

There’s a nervous chuckle. “Don’t be ridiculous. He didn’t mean it, he was only being polite.”

“He means it. He doesn’t say things he doesn’t mean. He keeps his promises,” Eggsy concentrates on scrubbing until the oatmeal lumps are gone. “I mean, he seems like that kind of bloke. What do I know?” He goes back to make sure the table’s clean, wiping it down just in case.

“...I’ll go if you go,” His mum bargains. And damn, he can’t believe he hasn’t really thought about it or noticed it before, but it’s almost like she’s using him as an excuse. Like she’s put him first every time for so long that even now it’s a habit for her to do that.

He doesn’t know what outcome she’s hoping for, and he’s thinking maybe she doesn’t know either.

Eggsy makes the choice for her.

“I’ll go,” He lies.

Her eyes are wide when he finally faces her, but then she squints in suspicion. “Really? Why?”

He shrugs. “I’ve never been to a fancy party mostly for adults, it’d be fun to see what it’s like.”

“Well, that’s--”

“No take-backs,” He tells her, stern, hoisting up his rucksack over his shoulder. “I’mma go now.”

“Where are you going so early in the morning?” She complains.

“Keeping fit, mum. Gotta stay gorgeous for the ladies,” He smoothly evades. “Unless you wanna go on a run with me? Just for a bit? Before you go to work, it’ll wake you up.”

She scoffs, immediately babbling out excuses and waving him away.

He laughs.

His smile drops the moment he makes his way out.

As early as it is at half past six in the morning, it’s technically rush hour. Discounting the fucking plague of tourists, there’s seven million people in London. More than half are trying to get to work and there are those trying to get home, switching shifts. But Eggsy eventually gets to a telephone booth in Baker Street.

He follows the instructions, and soon enough he has Mycroft Holmes on the other line, sounding rather miffed.

“ _Dear heavens, don’t teenagers sleep in? Especially in the summer holidays?_ ”

“Not when you give them an undercover job, no.”

“ _Ah._ ” There’s a pause. “ _So you’re taking it?_ ”

“There are things I need to confirm.”

“ _And those are?_ ”

“It doesn’t matter. I don’t entirely trust you.”

“ _Interesting. Then what are you calling for?_ ”

“How you intend for all of this to go down; Am I going alone, no back-up whatsoever? I’m not complaining, I just need to know so I can plan it out _._ ” Eggsy ignores the unease roiling in his stomach and hold his head high like he’s being watched.

There’s a long moment of silence.

“ _You must understand this is a very delicate situation. It is highly recommended you go in, do your job, then cleanly back out, without suspicion._ ”

It’s difficult, but he manages not to react to that. People are literally dying, what makes Mycroft Holmes think Eggsy can leave alive?

Eggsy only takes a long quiet breath before speaking, trying to sound indifferent. “If things go wrong?”

“ _Getting the authorities involved when there’s no clear evidence gathered for the previous victims would only worsen the situation. He’s a very powerful man, friends in high places. No one would persecute him on a single boy’s testimony alone._ ”

Good point. And while he’s managed to avoid answering Eggsy’s question, the answer is clear.

“Okay.”

“ _...’Okay’?_ ” Holmes repeats, unreadable.

“One more thing though,” Eggsy begins. “You gave me an overview of his schedule. It’s just an overview. I need to double-check if his usual schedule for Monday is the same for today.”

“ _...It should be. Why_?” His curiosity is clearly part suspicion.

“So he _will_ be in the Palace of Westminster for at least three hours, noon to mid-day,” Eggsy tries to get him to confirm. He can hear paper shuffling and keyboard clacking along with a long-suffering sigh.

“ _...Yes. Around eleven-thirty--_ ” Holmes stops, and his tone becomes lecturing and dubious, “ _Are you thinking of engaging with the target already?_ ”

Eggsy shrugs. “Does it matter? It’s my job alone, innit? I get to choose--That’s the perks.”

“ _The Palace of Westminster is the iconic home of the UK Parliament, one of the most heavily guarded buildings in this country--_ ”

Eggsy puts the phone down, unwilling to hear the baffled reprimands.

There’s a while until eleven-thirty. As it is, he just goes to Pineapple and meets with Yvonne.

“Perfect,” She tells him, flipping her hair. “I found a competition _worthy_ of our combined greatness.”

Eggsy raises his eyebrows. Undercover work on top of his normal job _and_ this competition. Come to think of it, he still has to call Anna to schedule another training session for massage. Amazing. He’s not gonna survive all of them. Something’s bound to fall apart. 

He chuckles. 

Obviously, he could say no to Yvonne.

But hey, it’s a good cover if anyone ever asks what’s keeping him busy.

“We got a song yet?” He asks instead.

Yvonne huffs. “No, but don’t think you can get out of practicing. There’s still some things you haven’t even learned. Let’s start with more ballet fundamentals.”

Eggsy doesn’t whine. “But I thought we were doing street dance and hip-hop?”

“Ballet is the _core_ of all dance.” She holds her head high. “Plus, don’t lie, you love suffering. Let’s go.”

After getting through that agony and being treated to a café for all his troubles, he has to cheekily decline her advances and her invitation to let him shower at her place. He’s pretty sure she knows they’re just flirting emptily at each other though. It’s not only fun, it’s also a bit of practice. He doesn’t think she minds.

When he gets to the Palace of Westminster, he blends in with the other people lining up at the visitor’s entrance. Most of them are tourists, but some clearly aren’t, like that family of four over there. He overhears that they’re going for the audio tour instead of the guided one ‘cos it’s cheaper. Which is smart, and is exactly what he’s going for.

Hunching his shoulders, Eggsy pulls out one of the juice-boxes that’s been stocked in his kitchen cupboards and works on it for a bit, anxiously glancing at his shite digital watch before he makes his way towards them.

“Hey, I’m sorry,” He begins rather nervously, looking around, “Can I go in with you lot? My uncle seems to be late--again--but I really wanted to go on this tour. I’m fifteen, so my ticket will only be seven quid, and I have the money right here,” Eggsy awkwardly fumbles with his wallet, glancing up at them hopefully.

The dad has a dubious frown on his face, but the mum’s already considering it, asking the kids for their opinion. “Hmm. What do you girls say?”

The one who looks like she’s ten nods graciously, while the younger one, about five maybe, jumps and yells in excitement. “Yeah! I’ve always wanted an older brother!”

Eggsy huffs awkwardly, and the dad rolls his eyes. “Alright. But once you’re in, we don’t know you.” His wife elbows him in the ribs and he mumbles, “Just don’t be trouble, alright?”

When they get in, they get briefed on security measures and how taking photos is ‘discouraged’, which is an understatement, obviously. They also get screened through a metal detector, and despite all his preparation, Eggsy gets a bit nervous even though he carefully chose the contents of his small rucksack. It’s not like he’s a fucking terrorist, jesus.

They get handed their audio devices, and Eggsy puts the headphones on. This place is fucking grand. A few seconds in and he already finds himself forgetting what he’s actually here for, looking up at how high and artsy the ceiling is. There’s so much detail everywhere. The statues are fucking massive--the paintings and the chandeliers too.

Honestly, the more he goes on, the more it dawns on him that really, what are the chances of him coming across Cavendish?

Plus, Eggsy paid like seven quid, he might as well enjoy being here. He doubts Holmes would pay him back anyway.

Someone tugs at his sleeve and he looks down to the little girl in his supposed family. “What’s wrong?” He glances around to see that the rest of them are only a yard or two away.

“Nothing.” She shrugs. “Just don’t want you to lose us.”

Jesus. His heart clenches from the _cute_ , and for a very brief moment he wishes that he was part of their family, that he had siblings.

But that’s not the reality he lives in.

And he’s here for a reason. 

Looking at her just strengthens his resolve.

“It’s alright, I’m here for other things,” Eggsy tells her, crouching down, “Don’t ever walk off from your family, okay? That’s not safe.”

She only pouts, and he tries not to die. “Baby girl, don’t do that. C’mon, lemme walk you back.”

“It’s Daisy, my name’s Daisy,” She announces, holding his hand as he walks her over to them. “My sister’s Gracie.”

“Daisy and Gracie,” Eggsy huffs, smiling. “How cute.”

He hangs around for a few minutes for Daisy’s sake, but he eventually leaves when she’s not looking.

There are security cameras hidden discreetly, but with the tall crowd around giving him cover and the way he swipes the official guidebook sticking out of someone's bag, it shouldn’t be noticeable. That shit’s like five quid. He’s not paying for it. Also, he stole it from someone who clearly had money.

Pulling a pen out, Eggsy skims it over the book until he gets to the detailed floorplan. He hooks his pen cap over the page as a bookmark.

While it’s just basic sense that you’re not supposed to be eating in this damn place--other than the fancy café that costs more than Eggsy’s salary in a week--he’s antsy. He just needs to do _something._ Being twitchy and restless with his hands and tapping his feet is just plain suspicious, so he takes out a lollipop and hopes no one notices.

Honestly, what the fuck, are they gonna arrest him for sucking a Sugar Daddy in the Palace of Westminster?

He frowns, considering it. Probably. Whatever. That’d be a fun experience.

Something to tell people someday:

_‘Oh yeah, I got arrested--at the heart of British Parliament itself.’_

_‘Why? What did you do?’_

_‘I sucked a lollipop.’_

Snorting, he continues in his audio tour. He’s at St. Stephen’s Hall just lingering and taking his time, because going from the book, the House of Lords usually have their meeting around half past two and so on. That’s what Cavendish is probably here for, isn’t it? There’s an option to line up in a queue somewhere if anyone wants to attend a debate. It’s only noon. He has time.

Most of the murals here depict some sort of important event back in time. Wars and violence, people meeting. [One](http://i.imgur.com/yDMvTnA.jpg) of them has a man kneeling as he greets a lady.

And shit, she kinda looks like Roxy. He wonders if she’s ever been here. She probably has. It would have been fun being with Roxy and Quinlan. Their endless commentary would have been hilarious. God, he misses them so much.

Eggsy squints for more information and he ultimately realises that the painting is of Sir Walter Raleigh and Queen Elizabeth. He absently pulls out the lollipop as he keeps on staring, because _of course_ Roxy would look like a bloody queen. He means to put the lollipop back in his mouth but he’s still distracted and in awe, so the tip simply lightly rests at his bottom lip.

There’s a sudden click of a camera, noticeable despite the audio he’s listening to. Eggsy blinks at the overwhelming scent of cologne.

“You’re not supposed to have that,” A rich tone of voice to his right says, part chiding and part amused.

On reflex, Eggsy suddenly shoves the lollipop back in his mouth, turning to mulishly retort something clever as he slides the headphones off, but he’s faced with fucking Cavendish himself and Eggsy does his best to hold it together.

It’s pure instinct to suck harder at the lollipop as he narrows his eyes in suspicion, looking at him up and down. The man’s wearing semi-formal clothes, dark trousers and a blazer over a cardigan _over_ a dress-shirt and a tie. For fuck’s sake. “You got a professional camera bag. You’re not supposed to be taking photos,” Eggsy rebuffs instead.

Cavendish raises his eyebrows. “I’m allowed to.”

“S’that so?” Eggsy challenges, cool and childish at the same time.

There’s something in Cavendish’s eyes. Offence, maybe, but there’s amusement if not curiosity. And Eggsy feels his gaze when it scrutinises him from head to toe. “How old are you?”

It’s seemingly innocuous, but a chill runs up Eggsy’s spine.

He ignores it.

He’s here to figure out whether or not it’s true, pretending to know nothing about what he’s been reading. Quinlan’s always taught him to be objective. Eggsy works harder, reinforces his mindset to pretend that he’s just a kid on a tour who’s met an odd bloke with a camera.

But he’s taken too long to reply, and Cavendish is already questioning him. “Where are your parents?”

“What makes you think I’m here with my parents, guv?” He sniffs.

“Your ticket pass,” Cavendish pointedly looks at the lanyard around Eggsy’s neck and the pass that reads ‘youth’.

Good. Eggsy did that on purpose. He didn’t go through the trouble of bothering with the family just because he was cheap. Still, he feigns hiding awkward embarrassment, resolutely keeping his gaze on the mural, sucking on his lollipop as an excuse not to talk.

“Did you sneak in, by any chance?” Cavendish asks, mischievous and chiding.

Eggsy pulls out the lollipop, petulant, “Look, I’m here ‘cos I’m gonna write a paper for school when I get back next term and my mum’s working. She doesn't have time for tours.”

Cavendish sighs, shaking his head. “You do know I’m obligated to--”

“Oh for hell’s sake, I’m not causing trouble, am I?” Eggsy mumbles.

“Well, I suppose I’ll simply have to watch over you.”

Things are not looking good for Cavendish. Eggsy tries not to immediately hate him. There’s still a chance.

Eggsy gives him a sullen look. “Don’t you have to take photos or something?”

“I have time,” Cavendish easily replies. “What are you writing your paper on?”

“I dunno. I’m trying to figure it out. I’m trying to get a feel for it.”

“Well, there’s always architecture. This whole place is a _marvel_ ,” He suggests, sounding really genuine about it, like he's in love with a fucking building. “You can ask me whatever you’d like. I’m feeling magnanimous.”

Fucking hell. Eggsy tries to move on, putting the lollipop back in his mouth and playing his part as he looks around the place, pretending to take some notes. It doesn’t last long. There’s a wet noise when he takes the lollipop back out. “Honestly, are you just gonna follow me around, guv?”

Cavendish huffs. “Stop calling me that.”

“Oh, I’m _sorry_ ,” Eggsy drawls, “Are you just gonna follow me around, _my lord_? What’s your name even?”

There’s a very superior eyebrow raise. “Most Honourable.”

“What.”

“The Most Honourable Richard Henry Arthur Cavendish, Marquess of Hartington,” He deadpans. And if Eggsy didn’t know what he already knew, he wouldn’t believe it.

So he just rolls his eyes. “Sure. Okay.”

Cavendish watches him for a moment. “You haven’t heard of me?”

Eggsy squints at the guidebook. “Even if that were true, what kind of posh bastard do you think you are, thinking I’d know you by mention alone? Honestly.”

“Good point,” Cavendish chuckles. “In the possibility that it _is_ true, you do know that you’ve just called me a ‘posh bastard’?”

“Hmm,” Eggsy frowns, turning to scrutinise him from head to toe again. “Yep. You are.” He puts the lollipop back in his mouth. Tsk. It’s almost finished. He’d like to take a new one out, but that might just get him into a new kind of trouble.

There’s an appalled scoff from Cavendish. “You are _very…_ ”

“Mmm?”

“...Bizarre--What is your name?”

Eggsy gives him a dubious look, taking out the clean stick of the lollipop and putting it in his pocket. “What’s yours?”

“Henry Hartington,” Cavendish answers easily. “Professional photographer."

“Gary. Low-class student. So you probably shouldn’t be hanging around me, you might catch fleas.”

“Oh, come on, now. That’s absurd. Class doesn’t matter. It's a mindset of the old times.”

That seems to be a theme with him as they go on around the Palace of Westminster. Maybe the man’s delusional. Maybe he does believe in what he says. He talks about the importance of the ‘common people’. And to be honest, Eggsy likes it. He lets himself warm up to him. It’s more believable that way. Because some of the staff nod in deference and smile as Cavendish passes by, and Eggsy just pretends not to notice. Cavendish keeps taking photos as they talk, and Eggsy plays his part, taking more notes and occasionally asking questions.

If Eggsy was a fool, he’d believe every word he says. ‘Cos he’s fucking _good_. If there was a GCSE for charisma, Cavendish would get an A-star.

“Ah,” Cavendish suddenly clicks his tongue. Eggsy sees that his assistant is at the end of the hall. Cavendish glances down at his watch. “I must be along now, Gary. How fast the time flew by. The House of Lords has a sitting in a few minutes, I must attend.”

Eggsy thinks of going with him, but that would mean fucking over the people who waited in line in the queue. While it would be for the greater good, he’s already spent time with Cavendish, and he seems to be keeping his identity a secret to Eggsy for now. Going would ruin that.

“Well,” Eggsy begins, “You’ve been with me for what, two and a half hours now? You know I’m not trouble, you can just…you know. Leave me here.”

“Oh, Gary,” Cavendish shakes his head, a little smile on his mouth as he pulls out a business card from his wallet. “You’re absolutely trouble.”

Eggsy frowns down at the card. “What’s this?”

“Has anybody told you that you have a good profile?” Cavendish prompts.

Which, what the fuck does that even mean?

“What profile?” He asks, puzzled.

“...Dear heavens, why has no one scooped you up already?” Cavendish looks at him like it’s adorable that he’s confused. “Modeling, Gary. Modeling.”

Shit.

Despite it all, he’s flattered as fuck--Wow, look how desperate his own ego is, fanned by a probable serial killer. Amazing. But Eggsy can’t ask anymore about it since Wiltshire is approaching them now, and Cavendish is putting away the camera in his bag.

“Lucas, I know. I’m getting there.” He’s giving his assistant this slightly miffed look as he hands the bag over.

“Didn’t say anything,” Wiltshire drones, sparing Eggsy a glance; He’s difficult to read.

Cavendish focuses on him. “Gary, shall I escort you out?”

Eggsy pouts. “Where’s the trust?”

Cavendish actually laughs. “If you want another tour, you can call me. I’ll give you a personal one. You can get your paper done before school even starts. I guarantee it.”

Shit. Maybe he’s just being nice?

“M’kay.” Eggsy lets himself be escorted out. Wiltshire follows them from a distance away.

Jesus.

As they linger by the exit, Eggsy purposely looks down at the ground, timid. “Hey, thanks, yeah?”

Cavendish smiles. “You’re welcome, Gary.”

It’s so fucking believable though. Eggsy almost wishes Holmes was lying.

 

\--

 

Harry returns from his run. Despite that, he still feels restless. How the bloody hell is three miles in his current condition not enough? The shower he takes doesn’t even entirely cool him down.

Cleanly dressed, he decides to turn his mobile on. Perhaps, there is trouble afoot.

Trouble that aren't Merlin’s calls and messages, that is.

He was expecting that. His mobile was powered off since it vibrated in the Unwin’s flat yesterday.

Through all the messages about Arthur’s demand for a meeting, he finds one from Michelle.

 

 

**06\. 08. 2007 - M. Unwin:**

_When you said you didn’t mind teaching me how to dance did you mean it?_

 

 

Harry frowns.

 

 

‘ _Yes, of course._ ’

 

 

Of course he doesn’t mind, not with Eggsy finally knowing his intentions. It would be good for Michelle to gain some skills.

When he goes the kitchen to settle for some food, his eyes are immediately drawn to the water bottle left on the dinner table, on the place that Eggsy used to vacate.

Harry hasn’t drunk from it at all.

It’s odd how he feels guilt from just having stared at it for too long. This is getting out of hand.

As he waits for the food to finish microwaving, he checks more of his notifications and finds that Morgause has texted him as well.

 

 

**06.08. 2007 - Morgause:**

_I’ll assume you either changed your mind or got kidnapped halfway to Marseille._

 

 

 _‘I could have gotten lost’,_ He replies instead.

 

 

The response arrives once he’s almost finished with his meal.

 

 

**06\. 08. 2007 - Morgause:**

_You’re a trained operative, you can’t have gotten lost._

 

 

_‘And yet you believe I could be kidnapped.’_

 

 

**06\. 08. 2007 - Morgause:**

_Could happen to anyone. Shall we set up an appointment upon my return?_

 

 

_‘When is that?’_

 

 

**06\. 08. 2007 - Morgause:**

_Tomorrow._

 

 

That’s rather tricky. He’s avoiding Arthur, and frankly testing his limits. Merlin surely would have told him about the outcome of the previous mission and excused Harry with another medical leave. But he’d rather not risk it. The moment he steps foot into HQ, Arthur will know.

 

 

_‘Afraid not. Next week perhaps.’_

 

 

He feels like an insolent child, running away from his problems. But this would be a good opportunity to think things through. The time will come when he’ll be forced to make a decision. Harry needs to be prepared.

Frowning down at the clean dry plate in his hand, he wonders if losing time is a symptom of something as well. However, he doesn’t bother texting Morgause. That shall have to be discussed some other time.

He turns around, simply gazing out of his kitchen, out of his dining room.

It’s then that he realises...he doesn’t know what to do.

Outside of Kingsman, who is he? What does he do? What does he love?

Harry grimaces.

He engages in some busy work by brushing Mr. Pickle’s coat, but even that ultimately finds its end when the beady eyes seem to stare at him, telling him to go away and leave him alone. Harry huffs.

There are many options. That’s the debilitating part, he supposes.

As he runs his fingers over the collection of vinyl, he muses that he could listen to music. He could read a book, he thinks, glancing at the bookshelf.

Ah, yes, he could watch a play.

Harry passes by the foyer on his way to the stairs with the intention of changing clothes. But he finds himself stopping, eyes fixed to the door.

The outside world, while interesting in some ways, is tedious. He’d rather not.

Not today.

He absently palms at his mobile. There’s no point.

Sitting in his office, he stares at the walls. He stares at his accomplishments.

They mean something. They mean a lot of things. They matter.

Why don’t they make him feel any better?

Clenching his fists, Harry takes a deep breath.

He opens one of his drawers, rifling through his files and keepsakes. He comes across the pamphlet that Quinlan had given him about two years ago. While he knows why he was told to educate himself, Harry doesn’t exactly know why he was adamantly told to keep it. Quinlan’s always been a bit odd.

Eventually, he finds it, what he’s been procrastinating on the whole day. The dread threatens to consume him whole at the sight. There’s no point delaying it. He might as well know what he’s being accused of.

It takes quite a few minutes to brave past the cover of the _Sexual Offences Act 2003._

He only gets through the table of contents, which in itself is long enough. Six pages.

Harry goes to bed early.

 

\--»

 

It’s chilly on Tuesday morning, and it doesn’t help that the clouds are blocking the sun.

Lying down in Whitehall Gardens, Eggsy’s stares at the sky, the back of his head pillowed by his own arms.

It isn’t long until Ryan’s making his way towards him, complaining, “The hell did you choose to meet here at arse o’clock, Gaz?”

Eggsy closes his eyes and hums, non-committal. Ryan goes on to rant about how Jamal’s been odd lately. And Eggsy does his best to pay attention. Just because he’s got a job on top of the _other_ job and the dance competition, it doesn’t mean he can be a shite friend.

Eggsy’s determined to do it all.

“Maybe it’s a girl,” He suggests, thinking of Janine.

“Well, we should know soon. He’s coming over right now, and he should be bringing the football. But honestly, here? There’s barely any space. It ain’t a pitch.”

“We’ll make do, Ry,” Eggsy tells him, hushed. It’s strange how mellow he feels.

Eggsy knows why he’s here, he knows why he’s here at this hour of the day.

Jamal finally arrives, but they don’t get much talking done before they’re getting into playing football. Ryan wasn’t _entirely_ exaggerating about the space, plus they’re an odd number so it’s a bit awkward. There really isn’t much of a team or a set goal post for that matter. They also can’t get too into it or else they’ll get some attention, and no one’s supposed to be playing sports here.

After a few rounds of half-arsed footie, their three-player game dwindles down to two when Ryan has to go pick Chelsea up from a sleepover. ‘Cos he’s whipped like that. And Eggsy can’t even be bothered to be annoyed about it.

“How many games do you think you can stay around for?” Eggsy huffs. “At least we’re even now.”

Jamal’s mouth thins. “I think I’m done.”

Watching him for a moment, Eggsy's brows furrow. “What’s wrong with you?”

Maybe there's something about what Ryan’s said after all.

“There’s nothing wrong with _me_ ,” Jamal responds pointedly. “You don't even wanna go down this road.”

Eggsy's taken aback. “What did I do?”

Jamal stares, and there's something like awe there. “See? You don't know, do you? How selfish you are sometimes.”

“Jamal, what the hell--”

“Did you know that Janine has a crush on you?” Jamal questions.

Eggsy stops. He huffs awkwardly. “Oh, mate, there’s no need to be jealous--it wasn't anything serious between us, we were just--”

“Exactly. You don't _think_ sometimes. How the fuck do you think she felt, being asked by the bloke she fancied to ‘fake date’ him? D’you know that sounds like a shit plan to try to get someone into actually dating you?”

“But I’m not--”

“--Holding her hand and being sweet and shit, all so you can use her as a pawn in your thing with Yvonne Jansen and her friend at the end of the night? Fuck you," Jamal spits, and Eggsy’s slowly getting over the shock, heading over to despair. “How _selfish_ can you be?”

“But--but I didn't know," Eggsy tries, “Plus, I told her from the start how it was gonna be--”

“Yeah, she knew. But I told you--I _warned_ you not to take advantage," He reminds him gravely, “She knew but she did it anyway, and she left that party early feeling like shit because she knew she didn't belong there and she fucking tried to play it off and smiled even as she fucking cried-- _how fucking dare you?_ You probably didn't even notice.”

Eggsy can't even take in a proper breath of air because _fuck_.

Fuckfuckfuck.

Jamal shakes his head, and the look on his face could either be disappointment or disgust. Hell, maybe both. Jamal grimaces. “Yeah, that's what I thought.”

He leaves, and Eggsy stays in the park until he can finally manage it.

Walking listlessly, he exits the gate, clutching at the straps of his rucksack.

Why does he always fuck up every time? Is that just something inevitable?

Jamal wasn’t entirely right. Looking back on it, Eggsy did have a _feeling_ that was the case with Janine, he just didn’t want to admit it. To be fair, she was always sort of shy despite the occasional streak of assertiveness. All in all, he genuinely didn’t think it was _that_ serious. Just a bit of a fancy, light-sometimes-awkward flirting here and there, nothing near to what he does with Yvonne.

But _crying_ , really? Jesus fuck, Eggsy feels like shit.

“...Gary?” He hears it distantly. Eggsy frowns, concentrating hard to stay in his pathetic mentality of self-pity. It’s getting so familiar nowadays, he might as well live in it. He thinks it’d be comfortable in a way--a comfortable punishment.

“Gary!”

There’s something like incredulity in the tone. Eggsy can hear a smile there too.

Eggsy’s brows furrow as he finally looks up, searching for him. And there he is, Cavendish, in a mixed pattern three-piece suit, posh and bizarre, but not overly ridiculous.

“Gary,” Cavendish huffs as he makes his way towards him, eyes narrowing slightly, mischievous, “Are you following me?”

Now _that_ is ridiculous, Eggsy thinks.

Until, of course, he suddenly remembers why he’s in this particular area at this particular time of this particular day.

...Yeah.

Regardless, Eggsy looks at him oddly, letting confusion and slight offence show in his expression. “I should be asking that question. I was at Whitehall Gardens,” He points with his thumb over his shoulder. “What about you? What’s with the posh suit?” He asks like he doesn’t know, scrutinising him up and down.

Cavendish has his eyebrows raised, but he humours him anyway. “I had a club meeting.”

“...A club meeting,” Eggsy repeats, bland. “Okay.”

At his reaction, Cavendish chuckles. “Not a modern club with fast-paced music and colourful lights. A gentleman’s club, Gary.”

Eggsy squints at that. “The sexy kind or the boring kind?”

Cavendish laughs. “The second one, I’m afraid. But no more of this boring talk--This is a fateful coincidence!”

There’s a strange growling noise from somewhere and Eggsy’s almost embarrassed when he realises where it’s coming from. But he shouldn’t be. It’s not like he didn’t plan it that way. Not that he can control his stomach growling at will, but he was going for that effect when he chose not to eat at all.

Amused, Cavendish pointedly looks at him. “Perfect. Come, let me take you to brunch.”

“Brunch, really?” He grumbles, following him dejectedly anyway. “I’m just wearing sweats, and you with your everything--”

“This is London, Gary,” Cavendish begins to loosen his tie, “No one should care.”

See, Eggsy should be nervous about this whole thing. But he’s still feeling like shit, and if he’s honest, he prefers it. Feeling like shit makes him not care about anything right now. Plus, considering that Cavendish leads him to a place literally ten seconds away, he doesn’t have the time to think too much.

Until he realises that this fancy arse humonguous building is a fucking _hotel_ , and Eggsy--yeah, no, the panic dies as if it never existed to begin with.

Huh, maybe he should feel like shit all the time. It makes him fearless.

Or reckless, it depends, really.

Following Cavendish, he ends up in this weird interior-outdoor garden lounge area. There’s not much space, but there’s a few quaint tables and chairs. Eggsy fidgets, and Cavendish watches him with a mildly amused expression, waving for him to sit across from the small table.

When he does, Eggsy fishes through his rucksack for his snacks, pretending not to notice the appalled stare.

“Gary…”

“Yeah?” He looks up.

“What are you doing?”

Eggsy snorts. “This is _my_ brunch, and I’m pretty sure the staff is itching to kick me out, that obviously means I can’t afford whatever they have here.”

“Dear heavens, sweet boy, no.”

First of all, that’s _gross_. But Eggsy doesn’t react. He’s too passive right now, any reaction from him will have to take actual effort. And so he furrows his brows and tilts his head slightly.

Cavendish shakes his head. “I invited you for brunch. You should order whatever you’d like, I’ll take care of it.”

“But...that’s not how I roll,” Eggsy mumbles, fiddling with a biscuit in its foil.

There’s an eyebrow raise. “How do you ‘roll’? Why would you come with me if you didn’t think I’d treat you?”

“Dunno,” He shrugs. “I just thought it’d be interesting. There’s nothing to do, really--” Eggsy halts, going on to stammer, “Shit--that sounded bad didn’t it? But--” At the belated realisation, he narrows his eyes. “-- _Oi_. I’m not some peasant after your handouts.”

Cavendish raises his hands slightly in surrender. “I admit there might’ve been a better way to say that, my apologies.”

Eggsy senses someone behind him, and soon enough the waiter passes by, headed straight for Cavendish.

“My lord,” He greets with deference, placing the menus on the table carefully. “Truly a pleasure.” He catches sight of Eggsy, and it’s clear that he’s been trained in the art of pretending not to give a shit because the annoyance in his expression doesn’t even last a second.

It’s impressive. Eggsy can only hope to be that good someday.

For now Eggsy just stops and blinks, mouth parting as he looks to Cavendish whose lips are thin with something like displeasure. But the man smiles up at the waiter politely.

“Likewise, Marcello. If you could give us a few minutes to ponder our orders?”

“Of course, sir.”

Eggsy frowns, waiting until he’s completely gone before he ventures meekly, “So it’s true then?”

Cavendish clears his throat, keeping his gaze on the utensils. “Please don’t treat me any different, I find your attitude quite refreshing.”

“Oh my god,” Eggsy hides his face behind his hands. “What the hell? Were you ever gonna tell me for reals?”

“Well, you were bound to figure it out eventually,” Cavendish hands him a menu and waits.

Eggsy peeks at it. “...Yeah, no, thanks.”

He works on peeling the banana instead. “God, I can't believe it. I really did call you a posh bastard to your face. Can you arrest me for that? You can't arrest me for that, can you?"

Cavendish is pressing his lips together like he's trying not to laugh. "No, Gary. This isn't the medieval times."

"Good. _Anyway_ , so this club of yours, what is it? Photography club or something? D’you really need to be wearing that? Or is that just a posh people thing?”

Cavendish chuckles. “You’re very amusing. It’s not photography club, no, not exactly--” He suddenly huffs and changes the conversation, “Gary, that banana, do you know its name?”

Stumped, Eggsy stares at him oddly.

‘Cos what the fuck?

“...No.” He stares down at the half-peeled banana and thinks about it. “Could be a George, I think. Or a Ben, I don’t know.”

A laugh legitimately escapes Cavendish before he tries to settle down. “ _Christ_ , I meant--” He sighs, shaking his head. “‘Cavendish’.”

“What.”

What kind of sicko names a banana after _himself_? What kind of sicko _names_ bananas?

“It’s a Cavendish banana,” He explains, “Named after William Cavendish, the sixth Duke of Devonshire. My father’s the twelfth. I’m meant to be the thirteenth.”

“...Are you takin’ the piss?”

“No.”

What the fuck. If that’s true, then bananas are ruined forever.

Eggsy narrows his eyes at him, hovering his mouth over the tip of the banana, almost like a threat. “I don’t believe you.”

The man rolls his eyes, taking the chance to fully rid himself of his tie and unbutton the top button of his shirt before settling back to watch Eggsy. “You can google it.”

“I don’t have a computer,” He retorts immediately. “Will it be in the encyclopaedias?” He sneers before putting the banana in his mouth and slowly biting down on it.

Cavendish tilts his head, considering. “Possibly…” He trails off and starts over, “The point I’m trying to make, I suppose, is that my family comes from a very long line of nobility. It’s not just name, it’s not just power. It comes with...assets and wealth as well. Even if I ran out of my own hard-earned money, I’d still have some to spare.” His hand reaches over to open Eggsy’s menu. “So if I say I’m treating you to brunch. I’m _treating_ you to brunch.”

What does that mean? Like...is it genuine or is it brunch for a fuck? ‘Cos it can honestly go either way, he can’t tell anymore. This bloke is really weirding him out, and not because he’s an alleged serial killer and paedophile, no. Eggsy’s weirded out ‘cos Cavendish pulls off the nice, generous nobleman fairy-tale prince shit. He’s charming, and he’s a bit crude with his smirks here and there, but it’s light, it’s not _threatening_.

Plus, if all of the supposed allegations were true, surely Cavendish wouldn’t be bringing his victims to public places like these? Granted, there’s very few people here, but there’s like two other tables for witnesses at least. Also, with the way Marcello acted, Cavendish goes here a lot. There should be cameras here too, posh and fancy hotel that it is.

Nothing makes sense. Eggsy’s more confused than he was from the beginning. So he just mumbles against the tip of the banana, staring down at the menu. “Dunno what half of these mean. Tell me what’s good.” He flips the pages, and he ultimately finds the liquor section. “Holy shit. Their alcohol list is longer than the food section.”

“Would you like some?”

Eggsy frowns at that, fidgeting as he mumbles low, testing, “I’m underage remember? I don’t wanna get you in trouble.”

“That’s sweet of you, Gary,” Cavendish tilts his head at him, looking genuinely surprised and heartfelt about it. “...No one will know if you promise not to tell. I can keep a secret. Can you?”

Oh. _Shit_.

But that doesn’t necessarily mean he’s talking about... _that_. Sometimes things are said and they can be taken many different kinds of ways, can’t they? He’s been in plenty of similar situations before.

“I ain’t no grass, guv,” Eggsy huffs, offended.

“Good,” Cavendish smiles, pleased. “What would you like?”

“D’you know if they have honey whisky?” Eggsy scans the menu, but he can’t seem to find it. There’s like nine fucking pages dedicated to alcohol alone.

“Is that your favourite?”

“ _Psh_ , no,” Eggsy evades. That’s fine. He wanted to wait for Harry anyway.

Eggsy goes still.

The _fuck_ \--He’s not supposed to be thinking about him, he promised himself. And he _meant_ it this time. He was doing so fucking well too. Besides, Harry probably wouldn’t go through with it. He said he’d ‘think’ about it. What does that even mean? Nothing, that’s what. For all his promises, Harry wouldn’t break the rules. Not these ones, at least. Not for Eggsy. There’s no point.

Cavendish clicks his tongue. “Truly a pity. No honey whisky here, I’m afraid. Do you like it sweet? Something tells me you like it sweet--There’s always red wine,” He suggests.

Eggsy scrunches his nose. “Nah, s’fine. It isn’t even noon anyway. Wouldn’t wanna start a habit.”

“Very wise, Gary. Very wise.”

Cavendish orders for him when Marcello comes back, and Eggsy’s noticed that he didn’t really even look at the menu. At all. Other than a salad, the man orders a really specific type of cognac with years and words that Eggsy probably couldn’t pronounce for the life of him, and a fancy named cigar.

A fucking _cigar_ \--Eggsy keeps his mouth shut until Marcello leaves. “The hell, guv, they serve cigars? It ain’t on the menu.”

“There’s a separate menu, I have it right here,” Cavendish taps a finger on his temple and Eggsy takes everything back, he hates this man immediately.

But once the food arrives, smelling good as fuck, Eggsy changes his mind again. Still, he passes off his hesitation as awkward shyness and not because he’s just plain suspicious. Maybe Marcello’s in on the whole thing. That is, if it’s all real and Holmes wasn’t lying. This is all very confusing.

Eggsy should write a beginner’s spy survival guide. Lesson one would be not to go on missions hungry. The second would be not to go on missions emotionally distressed. The rest is a progress.

“How is it?” Cavendish asks, amused, tapping his unlit cigar inbetween his fingers.

Caught, Eggsy tries to chew slower and swallow them down before talking. “S’okay.”

“Only ‘okay’?”

Eggsy shrugs. He’s being honest, he’s had better. “About the banana thing, does that mean you own all of it?”

“...Own what, exactly?”

“The bananas,” He clarifies, huffing childishly, “Seems fake to me, you just can’t own all of them just ‘cos it’s named after your family.”

Appalled, Cavendish actually props his chin up with a hand, watching Eggsy like he’s a fucking alien. “It’s tempting to tell you otherwise, but you’re quite right. My family’s involved in many other business ventures all over the world, however--” He frowns, “--Gary, might I light up my cigar? Or will that put you off entirely?”

“Go ahead, guv,” Eggsy magnanimously allows, ready for death. “Second-hand smoke only makes us die quicker, I don’t really have much to look forward to.”

Cavendish chokes on his cigar, smoke billowing up in clouds. “Gary, dear boy, you are quite dramatic.”

Eggsy tries to settle his gnashing teeth, smiling sharply instead. “Commoner life, _my lord_. You should try it sometime.”

“Is that why you’re reckless?” Cavendish murmurs into his glass of Hermitage 1900 Salle D’Angles--Whatever the fuck that means.

Eggsy scrunches his nose. “What ever gave you that idea?”

“You’re with me, a considerably older man you met just yesterday,” Cavendish points out, an eyebrow raised. “Surely you’ve heard of stranger danger?” He’s watching him keenly and Eggsy keeps up his front, scowling boyishly.

“I ain’t a kid. It’s not like you’re dangerous.”

“How would you know?”

“Well, you’ve got a wedding ring,” Eggsy counters as if it’s the answer to everything. Like he’s fucking dumb and oblivious. “That _is_ a wedding ring, innit?”

Whatever Cavendish was about to say, it’s gone, and he smiles instead. “It is.” He looks at the ring, fond, twisting it around his finger. “I think my wife would quite like you, Gary.”

It sounds pretty sincere too. Eggsy’s really doubting Mycroft’s intel, if not his intentions. The fuck would he be doing, wasting Eggsy’s time like this?

Still, he keeps it up. “Well, I’d hope so. Is she pretty?”

“The prettiest.”

Eggsy huffs. “Is she smart?”

“The smartest,” Cavendish says without a beat, and it takes effort for Eggsy to keep up the smile because he’s stuck with an overwhelming wave of longing. And it’s fucking sad and pathetic and he’s too tired to be angry.

“...Is she kind?” He finds himself softly asking.

Cavendish nods eventually, head held high. “...Yes. I’d like to think so.”

Eggsy’s gaze falls to his unfinished food.

“What’s wrong, Gary? I’ve noticed you were rather off the moment I saw you today.”

“Nah, nothing you need to worry about. Teenage stuff.”

Cavendish sniffs in mock offence. “I was once a teenager.”

Eggsy scratches the back of his neck for show. “I hurt someone’s feelings. I didn’t mean to. I didn’t know.”

There’s a long contemplative silence. “You will be apologising, I take it?”

The way Eggsy squirms in his seat is genuine. Of course he will, just...he’s not looking forward to it, and he’s willing to be distracted to put it off.

“...Gary,” Cavendish begins, chiding, but his tone is ultimately serious, “There are things we must do, things we must accept. It will be for the better, for it allows us to move on, allows us to give into whatever we’re meant to do in our lives.”

Letting that sink in, Eggsy’s back to playing it up, looking mulishly chastised as he mutters on, “That’s a bit vague, innit?”

Cavendish rolls his eyes and actually unbuttons his waistcoat. “The point is--”

“Yeah, yeah,” Eggsy huffs, petulant. “Why d’you bother dressing up like that if you're just gonna mess it up?”

“The tragedy of traditional private gentlemen’s clubs, Gary. The Savage Club is no exception.”

Eggsy gapes. “The _Savage_ Club? Blimey.”

What the fuck? Is that a sign?

“Why? Have you heard of it?”

“No, but what kind of club is that, calling itself ‘savage’?” He looks at him accusingly, “Do I even wanna know?”

Cavendish snorts. “Nothing exciting, I’m afraid. Members are sorted in their main interest, whether that is in art, drama, literature, science, law, or music. We discuss, we argue, we have dinners. We have highly esteemed speakers come in every now and then. Musicians as well.”

“Why’d you go if it’s boring?”

“To keep up with the people,” He shrugs lightly. “Gossip, mainly. Status as well.”

“Posh people _prestige_ ,” Eggsy announces, snooty. “What are you even gonna do with all that money and power? Tsk.”

“I like to think I give back,” Cavendish muses, tapping his cigar on an ashtray.

Eggsy chuckles. “And what, inviting a poor kid to brunch ticks the box, does it?”

“Among other things--But clearly you have other ideas. Have at it. I’m open to suggestions.”

Thrown off-kilter, Eggsy blinks at Cavendish. Of all the things he anticipated it was never this. He narrows his eyes. “What kind of suggestions? What are you capable of?”

Cavendish shrugs lightly. “Try me.”

“Hmm," Eggsy stalls, thinking about it, “I don’t know how much power noblemen actually have. But you attend meetings with the House of Lords, and people generally seem to like you. Surely that means you’ve got some...political pull, maybe.”

“Political?" Cavendish repeats with interest, urging him to go on.

“Well," Eggsy holds his head high, almost childish, “There should be a law passed about pitches, and how the fees should be lowered, if not free.”

Cavendish looks almost amused. “...Pitches?”

“ _Oi_ , d’you know what the hell I was doing in Whitehall Gardens? I was playing shite footie, that’s what. Me and my mates can’t afford to rent a real pitch for an hour. It’s like forty to seventy quid per person on average. That’s like...a hundred fifty quid for a game of football with three people! It’s mad. Fix it," Eggsy demands, like it should be that easy.

To Cavendish’s credit, he holds back laughter and clears his throat, adopting a very serious attitude. “You are aware that ballgames aren’t allowed in Whitehall Gardens?”

Eggsy rightfully squirms, mumbling inaudibly.

Cavendish rolls his eyes. “Some pitches are clearly run by businesses, not the government.”

Eggsy pouts. “So you can’t do nothing then?”

“That’s not what I said," Cavendish says, sly. “What pitches are you interested in playing in?”

Shit. He wasn't expecting this too. He’s not fucking stupid, he knows the government can't do much about it. At least not a lot. What the hell is this man planning?

“...Er. I dunno," He admits awkwardly.

“Some pitches are without fees as long as it’s for community use, you do know this?”

“Yeah, but they’re all either booked or full of tiny little kids who might be collateral damage," Eggsy grumbles. “I wanna play hard and fast.”

Cavendish nods, considering. “Alright. Here’s what you’ll do. Anytime you and your friends go to a pitch, call first or check in at the front desk. Use my name, show them the card I gave you, and just write down a few things so I know it’s you.”

Eggsy stares. “And?”

“That’s it, Gary," Cavendish tells him simply, like it’s not a big deal.

“Bullshit.”

Cavendish laughs. “How will you know if you don't try?”

“...Any pitch?" Eggsy checks.

“Any pitch within Central London, yes. Let's call it a test run.”

"When?"

"Whenever."

“Is there a deadline?”

“Hmm, no.”

Eggsy squints at him, and Cavendish shrugs, amused and relaxed. Something vibrates, and he sighs, rolling his eyes. “Duty calls, I’m afraid. Would you like some dessert before we go?”

Frowning, he pretends to think about it. “Nah. I’m full.”

“Maybe next time," Cavendish says, casual, “‘Tis a pity, though, I’ll be in Australia the next few days. Call me anytime you feel like it.”

“Don’t you have better things to do?" Eggsy asks, sceptical.

“Boring things, Gary. Boring things." Cavendish sighs, dramatic. “Absolutely dreadful.”

Eggsy rolls his eyes. “A tragedy, my lord.”

“Would you care to accompany me out?”

 

\--»

 

“There’s no use!" Michelle huffs in agitation, “Why bother? We’ve been at this for hours. Aren’t you tired?”

Harry politely keeps his patience. “It’s part of the process, Michelle.”

“I'm not good at this, I’m not good at anything.”

“The willingness and courage to try and learn is much more important than any experience," Harry professes, and she slows to a stop, looking at him strangely.

Michelle averts her gaze to the floor, badly hiding her awkward embarrassment.

Harry murmurs, “It’s alright. We can take take break. And maybe we’ll move on from the classic waltz onto something more familiar.”

“Thanks," She mumbles, running a hand through her hair. “You want some water?”

“If that’s not too much trouble.”

As she goes to the kitchen, Harry takes the chance to glance at the clock. It’s almost half-past eight in the evening. Eggsy still isn't home.

But Michelle doesn't seem to be worried. After handing him a glass of water, she tinkers with the stereo, going through radio channels. “Hey, what did you mean by familiar, exactly?”

“Well, whatever you’re comfortable dancing with, I suppose,” He answers absently. “Something you grew up with. Lestrade said it was a vintage dance party. There’s a good chance the themes will overlap.”

“Hmm." Michelle settles on an appropriate station and slumps in her seat, clearly exhausted.

“Shall we try again another day?”

“Nah, just need a breather, me.” She closes her eyes, and the remorse makes itself known as it gnaws at Harry. He sits across from her, observing. Michelle’s still haggard, having come from work, but insistent and awkward on the dance lessons. She’s trying, and Harry appreciates that. Despite her fatigue, she’s still beautiful. Michelle should have many chances to find people worth her time.

It’s the stress in her life, stress that Harry has caused. He can never bring Lee back, but he will do his best to set it right, to put the Unwin’s lives into a state of equilibrium.

“Michelle," He murmurs softly.

“Mmm?”

“Where is Eggsy? It’s rather late, isn’t it?”

With eyes still closed, she huffs. “Tell me about it.” Michelle sighs, shaking her head. “They just grow up so fast, don’t they? I mean, when was the last time you saw him? I doubt he even remembers you.”

At first, Harry doesn't quite know what she’s talking about, but she continues on, reminiscing, “Hmm, Eggsy was about, what, five? Six?”

The abrupt jolt of guilt _twists_ in his stomach, and he finds himself extremely self-conscious.

Because she doesn't know. She doesn't know that he’s met with her son when he was eleven, when he was twelve, when he was thirteen. All in dubious circumstances.

He’s grateful that her eyes are closed, he’s grateful that he can press on the injuries on his chest, incomparable to what he feels inside.

A new song begins to play, and it’s rather upbeat. He’s thankful for it as well. “Come, Michelle, this would suit you."

She snorts. “Excuse you, this song is from the sixties at least, I wasn't even born then." Michelle stops, peeking with one eye open. “How old are you again?”

Harry huffs, hiding his discomfort as he evades the question. “I remember hearing this song in my childhood, I was about eight or nine.”

Michelle humours him. “Don’t feel too bad then. We’re only, what, ten years apart? Give or take a few years.” She stands, getting ready. Her arms hang rather awkwardly as if she doesn't know what to do with them, and Harry gently takes the chance to maneuver them on his shoulders. She’s long told him to stop asking permission for every little thing, threatening to smack him over the head, and he’d rather not suffer a concussion.

They start slow at first, shuffling to the [music](https://drive.google.com/file/d/0B6aF7_1BmgYpaHdNQTUyeEg2cjg/view).

“Twelve years,” Harry finds himself admitting. “We’re twelve years apart.”

“Twelve years, that’s not too bad," She tries to mollify him.

_It is when I’m in love with your son._

Harry burns with an undeniable shame.

“I appreciate the attempt, Michelle," He tells her politely, and she laughs nervously.

“What now? We still doing them box-squares?”

“No, simply feel the music. Enjoy it. Be comfortable.”

Being exhausted must help with lowering her defences, because she actually starts to sway with it, less worried about it than she used to be.

He leads every now and then, subtle about the movements, letting her enjoy herself. Michelle enjoys it enough to break apart for a moment and turn the volume up high.

_‘~~~It’s the time of the season for loving~~~’_

Frankly, Harry is just as tired. No matter how much he tries, he can’t quite sleep. And considering how he’s slept through war-zones for the sake of regaining energy, it is very worrisome that he can’t even sleep in his own house.

It must be why he’s delayed in noticing it.

He’s spinning Michelle around through the instrumentals when he finally picks up on it over her surprised huffs of genuine laughter.

_‘~~What’s your name?’_

Harry looks up.

_‘~~Who’s your daddy?’_

He meets Eggsy’s gaze from across the room.

_‘~~Is he rich like me?’_

Rendered breathless, Harry finds himself paralysed, unable to look away from that intensity. And it strikes him how this all must look like. He slows to a halt.

_‘~~Has he taken any time? To show you what you need to live?’_

Michelle’s stops in confusion, following his gaze. She abruptly lets him go.

“Eggsy! You’re home!" She chuckles awkwardly, babbling on. “You should teach him how to dance, Hart! He’s going too!" Michelle smacks him on the chest and he manages not to react. She walks fast toward Eggsy, grabbing him by his sweatshirt and pushing him to Harry, making him stumble. “I need to take a shower, it’s late.”

Jaw clenching, Eggsy stares at the door where his mother disappeared to.

Harry swallows, offering a hand, but Eggsy flinches back. “Don’t touch me, I’m dirty.”

There’s something about him, there’s something about his voice. Harry knows he’s angry, but he’s hiding it well. His tone is flat, his face gives nothing away and his eyes are dead and Harry’s deep in despair.

“It matters not to me, Eggsy,” Harry tries, offering his hand again, but Eggsy only steps back further.

“I have to put this in my room," He gestures to his rucksack, disappearing without another word.

In the silence, Harry sighs, staring up at the ceiling.

Michelle exits her bedroom with folded clothes, staring at him oddly. She walks towards him, whispering, “Where’d he go? Is he being shy?”

“Why are you whispering?" He whispers back.

Surprisingly, Eggsy’s door opens. “Geez, mum, hurry up. I need to take a shower too.”

She raises her hands, “Alright, alright, keep your pants on.”

Michelle disappears to the bathroom, but Eggsy heads for the kitchen sink, washing his hands thoroughly, wiping his face and his neck with a cloth.

He comes back to Harry as the next round of the wretched lyrics comes on, but that really isn’t why Harry’s pulse begins to accelerate. Eggsy’s arms go around his neck, and Harry instinctively glances at the bathroom door.

“What?" Eggsy questions, unreadable. Harry reaches to regrettably pull his hands down, trying not to feel like filth when he settles one on his waist, keeping one to hold.

“Your partner will most likely be a woman, Eggsy.”

“How do you know?” Eggsy questions, interlacing their fingers.

Harry grits his teeth, evasive, “What’s that smell?”

Eggsy's lips thin. “I told you, I’m dirty. It’s sweat.”

Dubious, he watches him carefully. “What were you doing all day?”

“Practicing for a dance competition, _daddy_ , if you have to know," Eggsy begins, mock-earnest, and Harry has to look away.

“It’s not like that," He murmurs, “It’s not what it looks like, you must know.”

“Mhm.” Eggsy’s unreadable once more, but Harry doubts he believes him.

The song ends, and a new [one](https://drive.google.com/file/d/0B6aF7_1BmgYpbGFralZ2RDZvSjQ/view?usp=sharing) follows.

At the introductory instrumentals, Eggsy huffs, muttering about 'dramatics', but the moment the vocals come on, Harry finds himself overwhelmed with guilt and self-loathing. Petrified with it, he nearly screeches to a stop.

But Eggsy's grip tightens, movements urging him to continue.

And so they sway, slow and aimless. Harry finds himself closing his eyes, fighting to stay aware of the sounds of the shower. He can't entirely be thankful for their proximity. Eggsy has a different smell to him, and it’s not sweat. Whatever it is, Harry doesn't like it. It’s wrong, it’s agitating.

The words leave Harry’s mouth, soft and thoughtless, “You still have your soap at home."

“S’just soap, innit?" rebuffs Eggsy, a breath against his neck, and it's uncontrollable, the way Harry clenches his grip for a brief second.

Eggsy sighs, face falling against Harry’s shoulder. He turns his head, murmuring against Harry’s skin, “M’sorry--I had a very, _very_ long day."

"Did you, now?" Harry swallows. He wants to ask about his day, he wants a genuine answer. He knows he's not going to get it.

"Mmm." Eggsy settles in more closely, speech almost slurred. "M'tired."

Harry is lightheaded from all the distressing intimacy, but he's nevertheless genuine in his honesty. “I’m afraid I feel the same way.”

“Good,” Eggsy whispers softly, “I’ll hate you in the morning. Promise.”

In reply, Harry nods slightly against Eggsy's hair. The scent is less tainted here if he nuzzles deeper. It's almost purely Eggsy--and the sun, and yes, sweat. But it’s Eggsy nonetheless.

‘ _...And I’ll have better self-control tomorrow_ ,’ Harry doesn't say, dreading the moment the shower stops and he has to let go.

 

\--»

 

It’s a quiet breakfast.

But his mum keeps giving him these glances and honestly, Eggsy just wants it over with. He has things to do.

She sighs at his pointed look, fiddling with her fork on scrambled eggs. “About last night…”

“Yeah?" He prompts, casual.

There’s an irony here somewhere, the fact that his mum’s acting like a kid who’s been caught doing something wrong. She clears her throat, and he takes pity on her.

“He was just teaching you how to dance, right?” Eggsy says, as if that settles it. As if he’s fucking oblivious. “It’s fine.”

“...What you said a few nights ago,” She ventures, averting her gaze. “D’you think...maybe...there’s something there?”

Eggsy’s breath gets stuck in his throat.

At the silence, she hastily starts backtracking, embarrassed, and he finds himself interrupting her. “Maybe.”

“...Yeah?” She looks at him, guarded, but there’s hope there. There’s _hope_ , and god, he’s not meant to be the person she should be talking to about this. Harry was right. She needs friends. But she doesn't have much of anybody. And it’s Eggsy’s fault, really. It is.

Recalling the way she laughed last night, carefree and genuine, he forces his reply out. “Yeah, maybe.”

He’s never really heard her laugh like that before. Not with anyone else.

“So, _theoretically_...what do you think I should--” She babbles, stumbling over her words in her awkward giddiness. “Do I wait for him to--”

“No,” He interrupts.

And she stops, staring at him with badly hidden anxiety again.

Eggsy watches the expired pieces of cereal floating on milk instead. “You don’t…” He clears his throat. “You don’t wait for him to make a move. You gotta do it first.”

Her brows furrow. “But he’s the gentleman type, isn’t he? If there _is_ something there, surely he’d ask?”

He finds himself shaking his head. “Yeah, but I’m pretty sure he’s like, repressed or something,” He huffs, aiming for a bit of humour, hoping she doesn’t notice how he falls short. “Plus, he’s still guilty about what happened with da, so...yeah.” Eggsy bites his lip, hard. “You gotta ask him first.”

She nods, slow, thinking it through, and Eggsy can’t look at her for too long. He might break.

He feels it. He feels it looming. His breaths are starting to become unsteady in the littlest ways, and he fights it. He fights it. But there are involuntary twitches in his hands, in his legs, in his sides.

And his throat--his throat is starting to close up.

“So…” She starts, and he feels her watching him, and he works harder, he fights against his own body.

“Yeah?” He tilts his head, attentive and feigning ignorance.

“So you’re fine with it, then?” His mum checks, watching him close, worrying at her lip.

Eggsy shrugs and lies to her face. “S’okay.”

“Yeah?”

“Yep.”

“So...you like him?”

Eggsy can’t help the large expulsion of breath that escapes him, and he manages to pass it off as a short scoffing laugh, “ _Hah_ \--Like him?” He swallows past the thickness in his throat, “I love him.”

He smiles, all teeth, breathless.

His mum huffs, rolling her eyes. “Okay, alright. No need to be cheeky.”

Eggsy finishes his food and hurries up with the dishes. He thumbs the metal bracelet on his right wrist just to check and leaves the flat immediately without being too suspicious. He even kisses his mum on the cheek.

Eggsy ends up in a telephone booth. Because he has no one. He has no one but a fucking alleged paedophile serial killer.

“ _Hello?_ ”

“I can’t believe you actually answered,” Eggsy despairs.

“ _Gary, a pleasure,_ ” And god, fucking wanker sounds like he means it. “ _Though, I feel as if it’s not mutual. What’s wrong?_ ”

Eggsy tries for a laugh, and he knows it comes out shaky. “Nothing. I’m fine,” He shakes his head, willing himself to believe it. “I’m fine.”

This is his job, isn’t it? Whether or not Holmes’ intel is true, it all works out. Eggsy gets what he needs, to vent or to forget or to get distracted, and he manages to look like a vulnerable kid while he’s at it. It all works out.

“ _Is this your number, Gary?_ ”

“No, m’sorry, I run out of minutes,” He lies easily, sounding poor and awkward as he should be. “I’m in a telephone booth--Anyway--Aren’t you busy? How’s Australia? I’ve never been.”

“ _It’s sweltering hot, Gary. I’m barely alive. The insects are enormous. Disgusting._ ”

He laughs, hating how broken he sounds. “Disgusting! Exactly. They’re disgusting.”

But Harry likes them. Harry likes them, and Eggsy’s eyes are watering. _Fuck_. He grits his teeth hard like that could stop them.

“ _...Gary, whatever your going through--_ ” Cavendish sighs, “ _Would you care to reveal your location? My assistant can come and get you._ ”

“What for? God, he’s just gonna kill me for making him do more work than he already does,” He huffs, aware of the irony of it all.

“ _You can do whatever you want. Go to the cinema, watch a game, it’s on me._ ”

“Why?” He asks, trying not to sound too desperate. It would be too suspicious if he didn't question his motivations. No one's that dumb this day and age. Shit, he hopes not. “Why are you being nice? Why are you doing this?”

“ _Because I can._ ”

Wiltshire pulls up in a black Mercedes Benz in less than fifteen minutes, tinted windows and all. Eggsy looks properly embarrassed about it, shoulders hunched.

“Hey, I’m sorry, man. I didn’t mean to make your life difficult or anything.”

Wiltshire raises an eyebrow, handing him a [mobile](http://i.imgur.com/BXKsvNz.jpg) before opening the backseat for him.

Eggsy enters, sitting down on pristine leather and frowning at the mobile. Under the guise of being uncomfortable in a new environment, he takes the chance to furtively look around for any cameras.

The mobile vibrates, and he meets Wiltshire’s gaze through the mirror. “...Er?”

The man raises an eyebrow again, and Eggsy mumbles, answering the call.

“ _Gary, all settled?_ ” Cavendish asks.

“Yeah.”

“ _If there’s anywhere you wish to go, simply tell him. If not, he has orders to take you to places I think you’d enjoy. Don’t hesitate to ask._ ”

“Um…” He manages, awkward, “Okay.”

“ _Good_ ,” Cavendish praises him, pleased. _“Also, what souvenir would you like? Koala key-rings? Would you enjoy that?_ ”

“S’there butterflies over there?” He stupidly finds himself blurting out. He avoids Wiltshire’s gaze in the mirror, hunching his shoulders and leaning against the door, childish in his embarrassment. He covertly fiddles with the tiny device he’s hidden in his medical bracelet.

Just because he doesn’t see any cameras doesn’t mean he can take it easy. He shifts in his seat, subtly palming around for pocket areas. There’s always the seat-pocket in front of him, but that’s too obvious. He hasn’t pressed the sequence on the device yet, but maybe when he leaves the car, he’ll stick it somewhere.

“ _...Do you like butterflies?_ ”

“No,” Eggsy denies immediately. “I just...know someone who does.” He knows he sounds like he’s lying, but that’s the point.

“ _I’ll see what I can do. Do enjoy yourself, Gary---And oh, about my assistant, I’m aware Lucas looks intimidating at times, but really, he’s overdue for some holiday and I’m afraid this excursion of yours is the best I can give him for now._ ” Cavendish laughs, dropping the call.

What a shite boss.

Eggsy meets Wiltshire’s eyes through the mirror and clears his throat. “He said you were overdue for some holiday.”

Wiltshire actually huffs at that, briefly revealing a lopsided smile as he shakes his head. “Where to?”

Huh, who knew. He’s actually capable of human emotion.

“I honestly don’t know. You can go wherever, mate. He said it’s the best attempt of a holiday he can give you for now.” He hands over the mobile, but Wiltshire doesn’t take it. The man only hands him a shop bag from the passenger seat. It has the mobile’s box inside, and it takes Eggsy staring at the receipt to realise that it’s just been bought eleven minutes ago for two hundred quid.

“What.”

“It’s yours.” Wiltshire shrugs. “If you could put your seat belt on, I’ll start driving.”

Eggsy’s actions are automatic as he follows the command because--“What am I supposed to do--I can’t accept this, I already have a mobile.”

 _I have three_ , He doesn’t say.

“Yes, but no minutes. Mr. Cavendish insists on you having this--How about a museum?” He muses out loud.

Eggsy sends him a dubious look. “Is this you being PG-13? How are you on sports and violence?”

Does this count as tempting fate?

Wiltshire holds his gaze in the mirror for a few seconds before a sharp grin spreads across his face. “Thought you’d never ask.”

Shit.

Heart thudding, he grins back. “Bring it on.”

 

\--

 

Harry frowns, staring outside his balcony doors from his office.

Eggsy should be back to work either today or tomorrow if he hasn’t decided to quit.

His mobile rings again, and out of pure boredom, he decides to suffer.

Surprisingly enough, Merlin’s not yelling. His tone is flat and exhausted, sounding the way Harry feels.

“ _Galahad, this business with Arthur, finish it. I’m tired of being the middle man. I have better things in my agenda. Like, hmm, preparing surveillance for the sudden agreement between South and North Korea to hold a summit at the end of this month. Your injuries needs checking up as well_.”

Harry sighs. “When’s the latest I can get away with it?”

“ _Three days._ ”

“...Alright.” Harry concedes, civil. “After that, will I be assigned missions?”

Merlin’s silence is bordering on amazement. “ _...After what you pulled in Lisbon?_ ”

An abrupt hysterical laughter erupts from Harry’s mobile and he has to pull it away to protect the functionality of his ears.

Harry scowls. “I can simply prove myself.”

“ _Right. Of course. Goodbye, Galahad._ ”

Spending a few hours catching up on paperwork on his laptop while listening to the news, Harry’s biding time until he has to go to the Unwin’s flat for Michelle’s dance lessons.

It doesn’t keep his mind off what he has to decide on.

Harry wants to stay, there is no doubt about that.

But as more days pass, he seems to realise in increments how deep in shit he actually is when it comes to Eggsy Unwin. And he fears his current level of self-awareness isn’t even close to it.

He wants to stay.

But he can’t be like this. He can’t feel this way.

Despite his resolution to fix this issue, it dawns on him that he might just not have that amount of time to get over this inconvenient predicament he has found himself in with Eggsy and deny Arthur’s offer once and for all. He’s denied it before, but it clearly wasn’t enough for the man. Harry needs to set the record straight.

Perhaps he can fool Arthur simply to get him off his case for a while. What if Harry says yes with the intention of actually staying? Surely he’ll find some excuse. Maybe he can break a leg this time.

If Eggsy never existed then perhaps, _perhaps_ , Harry would have gone without a second thought. Arthur’s goal is excessively ambitious. He's toying with this idea--Essentially, he wants the whole world under his control. Quietly, of course. When the time comes that he's not satisfied with something thousands of miles away, he wants the ability to change decisions being made in an instant. Arthur genuinely believes that it’ll make operations within Kingsman easier.  
  
Such a feat requires information, loyalty, leverage.

Depending on which source one acknowledges, there are around a hundred ninety to a hundred ninety-six countries in this world. Harry would have to befriend all kinds of people, infiltrate organisations and groups. He would have to know their secrets, he would need to be trusted, he would need to be seen as loyal. Needless to say, that takes years.

Arthur hasn’t given him too much details, but that is basically the entirety of it. Harry’s the first and primary agent considered for this job. He has the skills, the charm, the experience and the willpower. Once he gains enough traction and reel in some results, Arthur will ultimately send more agents to follow in his footsteps.

It’s all for the sake of international security.

And yet--Harry once again considers an alternate universe in which Eggsy never existed. With a strange kind of certainty, he’s convinced that he himself couldn’t possibly exist as well.

He swallows, looking down to realise he’s thumbing at the scar under his watch.

The white blank page on his screen calls his attention, and Harry finds himself typing his revised resolutions.

Later, he’s on the phone with Michelle.

“ _Be honest._ ”

When it comes to her, Harry always finds it difficult to play innocent without the fear of overdoing it.

“ _Come on, Hart, what’s the verdict? Does my son have a chance in posh dancing?_ ”

“Of course he does.”

He can practically see her rubbing her hands in excitement. “ _Maybe he can bring his girlfriend to the party. He would need a dance partner. Maybe I can meet her. Maybe they’re real cute together._ ”

Harry falters for a brief second. “Michelle,” He huffs, pursing his lips. “I said a chance, he’s not an expert just yet.”

“ _As I’ve said before, maybe you should teach him_ ," She carelessly suggests.

 _I already have_ , he doesn't say, remembering the days before Eggsy's prom. It seemed so long ago.

It must be why Harry finds himself agreeing. “It _would_ give him an advantage once he goes off to Oxbridge," He allows, trying not to sound eager at the prospect. Because he isn't. That genuinely ruins his plans to wean himself off Eggsy.

And yet.

He glances at the digital document he’s working on.

“ _You’re still on about that aren’t you?_ " Michelle marvels.

“Pardon?”

“ _The Oxbridge thing._ ”

Harry holds his head high. “I believe in him.”

“ _That’s good--Good to know I'm not the only one._ “ She clears her throat. “ _Though would he really need posh dancing at uni?_ ”

“He would be invited to social events. It would be good for networking and his prospects for future careers.”

Michelle huffs, suddenly joking, “ _Suppose he’d need to know which cheese goes with what wine?_ ”

Harry blinks. “Yes. Yes, he would.”

She gasps. “ _Really?_ ”

“Well, it wouldn't be a necessity per se, but knowledge, skill and expertise are always an advantage. Especially with where he’s going.”

“ _Huh._ ”

Harry types fast, as if that could stave off the guilt. “Michelle," He begins, serious and sincere, “If you would allow me, I will teach him.”

“ _...Teach him what, exactly? Dancing?_ ”

“Everything we’ve just talked about," He attempts to sound calm and casual, ignoring the roiling self-revulsion in his stomach. “I’ll draft a lesson plan, I can bring a copy when I come over. You can check off on it, change whatever you’d like.”

Michelle is clearly incredulous. “ _...You can't be serious. Don't you have a job?_ ”

“I’m on a holiday. I’m not used to holidays.”

“... _You’re mad, you know that? What I wouldn't give for a holiday_ ," She laments, “ _And look, you’ve already done enough for us._ ”

 _Not enough, it’ll never be enough_ , Harry thinks.

“Michelle, I simply wish for Eggsy to be equipped with everything he needs to compete against the world. He’s already brilliant, he’s hardworking, I gather he’s a fast learner as well...”

“ _...Yeah. Yeah, okay_ ," She relents, soft. “ _Bring it when you come over._ ”

By the time their conversation comes to a close, Harry finds himself staring at his draft on the screen. It’s essentially done.

Harry only gives it to her after an hour’s worth of dance practice. Because from the looks of it, she’s not just exhausted, she’s dizzy from the adrenaline as well. “Here it is.”

“Oh, wow, that’s…” She tries to get her breaths to settle and squints at the document. “That’s a lot.”

“Yes,” He acknowledges his own depravity, “But needs must.”

They sit across from each other, and he only observes as she reads down the page. “...These are really fancy.”

“It’s not a school trip, Michelle, please don’t worry about spending anything.”

“...But...” She trails off, rather embarrassed and uncomfortable.

“Is there any you’d like to cross out? The wine and cheese, perhaps?” He tries not to sound too hopeful. “I’m aware he isn’t even sixteen, so it’s completely understandable if--”

“Oh, no, that’s fine.” She tells him, frowning. “It’s important with your types, innit? I think he’d find it fun at first, but he’s probably just gonna end up bored,” She snickers, before turning serious. “Either way, I want him to experience and know things too.” Michelle nods, sincere. “He should do it all before he gets tied down with someone, I wouldn’t want him to look back and regret all the things he’s missed.”

Harry’s gaze is to the floor. “Yes, I wholeheartedly agree.”

“I mean, I know he has a girlfriend or something, and it could be serious, but...I don’t know. We’ll see.”

Clearing his throat, Harry attempts to get them back on track. “About the wine, rest assured it will be the minimum necessity.”

Michelle huffs, waving him off. “Don’t worry, I trust you.”

Harry whips his head to stare at her. It’s the only thing he can do, paralysed by guilt and self-conscious fear as she goes on.

“I think you’re...nice. When it comes to him. You’re good. I trust you.”

Swallowing past the thickness in his throat, he evades, “So you aren’t worried about the alcohol?”

She shrugs. “I know he’s underage, but I think he can handle things here and there--and I know he’s young, but I trust him. If that’s what you’re worried about, I give you my permission to let him drink a glass or two. Or three. Whatever he can handle, really. I don’t know. Damn, does that make me a bad parent?” Michelle raises her hand immediately, closing her eyes. “Don’t answer that.”

Harry huffs, soft. “You’re doing fine. It’s a balance of being a parent and a friend he can rely on. For everything you’ve been through, he’s turned out...exceptional.”

“Mmm,” She agrees, further resting back on her place on the sofa, clearly about to doze off.

It’s time for him to leave.

He might have not caught sight of Eggsy, but that should be for the better.

When Harry is nearly to the door, Michelle jolts awake, slightly embarrassed and miffed, insisting on walking him out. They’re on the outside hallway balcony, making their way to the stairs when she clears her throat, “Do you maybe want coffee sometime?”

Harry finds himself pleased at her initiative for social interaction. “Why not?”

“Yeah?” She asks, haltingly dumbfounded.

That gives him some pause. Brows furrowed, he tilts his head, and Michelle hastily backtracks. “Nevermind, you literally gave up your coffeemaker.”

Harry chuckles. She’s learning after all. While it’s good for her, it doesn’t bode well for him if she ever picks up on his affections for her son. Harry skillfully masks his dread. He should be more cautious than ever.

He gives her a little smile. “It’s fine, Michelle.”

“How about dinner instead?” She blurts out. He raises his eyebrows. That’s rather off and ambitious in escalation, but Michelle is only starting out, he’ll have to veer her in the right direction. That’s one of the reasons why he’s here after all.

He nods, ready to accept her invitation, but in that moment, instinct drives him to glance somewhere off to the side and down the stairs. In the space between the railings, he finds himself meeting Eggsy’s eyes.

Paralysed, Harry feels caught, _guilty_ as if he’s done something terribly wrong and--

 _Oh_.

 _Oh no_.

He looks back to Michelle who hastily backtracks again due to the beat of silence that’s passed. “It’s fine, nevermind--”

“I--”

Michelle can’t possibly be interested in that context--That’s---She huffs, ”No, it’s alright--”

“I’ll see to my schedule,” Harry excuses himself genuinely as he can, polite and sincere. He even gives her another smile.

She slows in her profuse insistence, blinking slowly at him. “Really?” Michelle squints, confused and sceptical.

It’s intuition from working so long in his career that leads him to put on a front, charming in his smile as he assures her, “I’m on a holiday after all, surely I can skip a cooking class for one evening.”

A laugh escapes Michelle at that, and she seems to be back to herself when she voices her disbelief. “You? A cooking class?”

“One never stops learning, Michelle,” He huffs, rolling his eyes as he slowly angles for the stairs.

She rolls her eyes in return as she waves him off. “Okay, alright, Hart.” There’s a little smile on her lips as she leisurely walks backwards to the flat.

He nods goodbye at her on his way down the steps, bracing himself for the eventual encounter with Eggsy.

And he’s right to be, because when he gets two floors down to another flight of stairs, he finds himself pushed _hard_ against the wall, the burst of pain from his injuries helplessly making him tense for a brief second.

Closely faced with Eggsy whose expression is stone cold, Harry fights his instincts, focusing on the fist clenched on his lapels, the only thing giving away Eggsy’s shaking rage.

“Eggsy,” Harry tries, calm, looking down at him.

“Hart,” Eggsy bites out, and Harry’s heart sinks to his stomach as the he goes on, emotionless in his enunciation. “What the hell was that?”

“It seems everyone is getting the wrong impression,” Harry announces diplomatically, “Worry not, I will set it right, I will make some form of excuse--”

“Fuck you,” Eggsy’s fist presses harder on his chest as he inches his way closer, and Harry holds his breath as the pain escalates, as Eggsy’s bloodshot eyes seemingly water. “I told you. I _warned_ you. You will _not_ make excuses. You _will_ follow through.”

Harry exhales in surprise. “That’s not what you want.”

“What you said, what we talked about, you were right. You were right about her and what she needs,” Eggsy grits out, bitter, “How the _fuck_ do you think it would set the progress back if you reject her?”

As much as he doesn’t want to admit it, Eggsy is right. What self-confidence Michelle’s been gaining over the past six months, it would tank, and maybe she’ll even refuse to see him for a while, refuse his visits, refuse for him to spend time with Eggsy.

Breathing through his nose, Harry suddenly finds his agitation rising at the scent. “Where were you?” It’s helpless how his eyes rove all over Eggsy’s face. There’s a crack in his expression, but Eggsy’s jaw clenches as he leans even closer to stare up at him.

“None of your fucking business,” He hisses, teeth gnashing, but Harry’s already wondering if the slight redness high on his cheekbone is separate from the rest of Eggsy’s angry flush, if it’s swelling on its early stages of bruising.

Harry's hand finds itself reaching for it without his own permission, and Eggsy flinches back, slapping it away, heaving in his unsettled fury as he whispers harshly, “ _Don’t you fucking touch me_.”

Harry recoils immediately, the shards of guilt and self-loathing piercing themselves into him. Petrified into inaction, Harry eventually becomes numb in his despair.

There’s only a brief moment of silence before Eggsy invades his space once more, sneering up at him. “You’ve made your bed, Harry Hart. Now lie in it.”

  



	26. 25

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ...  
>  rek't

 

 

 

 

Eggsy laughs and laughs and laughs at Cavendish’s lame joke.

It’s easy to forget what he’s actually here for when he’s having fun with his targets.

Yeah, he’s guilty of getting in too deep. But all Eggsy has to do is think of little Daisy who held his hand during the tour and he finds himself centred. His can feel his own smile having that sharper edge, and he has to work to settle it back down.

He still doubts Mycroft Holmes, but the chance is always there, that these people are dangerous, that they hurt children. And Eggsy should never forget.

To be fair, it’s harder to keep the act up if he doesn’t forget it. It’s a constant struggle.

“Ah,” Cavendish remembers something, “Before I get distracted, Lucas, could you get the bag from my office please?”

Wiltshire goes, and Cavendish turns to Eggsy, gesturing to the space. “What do you think, Gary?”

“It’s nice, I suppose,” Eggsy admits, surveying around the area again. “Though I haven’t seen any other studios for comparison.”

“I shall have to meet your mother one of these days,” Cavendish proclaims.

_Over my dead fucking body._

“What for?” Eggsy squawks.

Cavendish turns his nose up, not doing much to hide the mischievous twitch at the corner of his mouth. “Maybe she’ll have some sense into her, get her son to work for me instead. You are still a minor, after all.”

The worst part is that Eggsy considers it. Leaving the bookshop would give him the space he needs to get over Harry. It would also leave him free of feeling like he owes him something.

Hunching his shoulders even more, Eggsy huffs, self-deprecating. “What would I even model?”

“Oh, Gary, the possibilities are endless,” Cavendish crows, and Eggsy feels sick in the pit of his stomach.

Because it’s  _wrong_ , hearing it from his mouth.

Eggsy will have to get used to it. He’ll get over Harry. He will, he swears it.

For now, he only snorts at Cavendish. “You do know I’ve only met you like a few days ago? How would my mum agree to anything? She’d probably lecture my arse on stranger danger again.”

Cavendish laughs before cutting himself short, dreadfully serious. “Gary, I’m a well respected figure of society. I’m sure she’ll warm up to me.”

At that, Eggsy childishly squints, dubious. Wiltshire returns with a shopping bag and Cavendish fishes through it, eventually pulling out a tiny box for Eggsy. “Here you go, part one.”

“What.” Eggsy flatly manages, hesitantly taking it.

“Souvenirs from Australia. Dreadful hellhole,” Cavendish laments.

“You really didn’t have to,” Eggsy slightly squirms in his seat, “You’ve already done enough.”

“Nonsense, Gary.”

Eggsy frowns down at the box. “Do I have to open it now? Wait--what do you mean part one?”

Cavendish shrugs. “There’s something in the works, you’ll just have to see.”

He’s about to protest, but his mobile vibrates with the alarm he’s set. “Ah, damn. Gotta go to work.”

“Oh Gary,” Cavendish sighs, “Have fun. Lucas, take him.”

“Hah, no,” Eggsy evades with humour, standing. “I’m taking the tube. Bye.”

“Then he’ll be taking you to the tube station,” Cavendish announces, walking him them the door. “Lucas, you’ll be in Madrid in a few hours with Marielle, yes? Remember to get Gary something. It’s the least you can do for that bruise, honestly.”

Eggsy objects, huffing, “T’was just an accident. I needed it, really. It was fun!” He insists with childish enthusiasm. “We should do it again.”

Wiltshire manages to look innocent as Cavendish raises an eyebrow. “Tough, are you, Gary?”

“Well, I’d like to think so,” He holds his head high.

The man rolls his eyes. “Go on, you. Best not to get in any more trouble for now. The next time there’s any boxing going on, I should be there to supervise. Unfortunately, I’ll be stuck in Bucharest the next few days.”

“More photoshoots with fit models?” Eggsy prompts. “Ah, what a  _tragedy_ , my lord.”

“Cheeky,” Cavendish mutters.

 

»

 

Eggsy thinks nothing more of the box in his rucksack when he goes to work, greeted by both Clara and Max with hugs and eager questions about where he went for his holiday.

He only snorts. “You two are real cute, now tell me what I have to do around here.”

They notice the bruise on his cheek, and he makes a story too grandiose to believe about fighting a bloke for his girl, but they laugh and roll their eyes at his shenanigans once he assures them for the fifth time that it’s nothing.

Busying himself with the tasks, he barely even notices the time passing until Max starts preparing to close the shop.

Eggsy keeps ignoring the fact that Harry’s house is only a few seconds away.

He will continue to ignore it.

There’s that part of him, pathetic and stupid, protesting. It’s the same part of him that wonders about Harry, wonders how his day went or where he is, the part that wonders if he’s okay or not.

It’s the same part of him that  _senses_ the answers to all these questions.

Eggsy shuts all of it down.

 

\--

 

Harry accidentally breaks the glass he’s supposed to be washing, and he can only watch the blood circling down his kitchen sink for a few moments until he absently shuts off the water as a habit.

In an indeterminable amount of time, he’s sat in his office, staring at the wounds on his palms for how long when he suddenly huffs.

The huff turns into a short stilted laughter.

And that turns into a hysterical uncontrollable sound that trails off soon enough.

Gradually, he clenches his fists, and with elbows set on the desk, he raises his arms to hide his face.

It’s such a bizarre sensation, the vast chasm of  _nothing_  in accordance to the phantom ache he feels.

Even as he spreads his hands open and clenches hard again, the pain is nothing near comparable to the anguish of emptiness.

 

\--»

 

Eggsy is doing great.

He’s doing it all.

Cavendish and Wiltshire might be busy doing whatever but Eggsy talks to them through his new mobile. Eggsy works his arse off at the bookshop  _and_ his dance classes with Yvonne. He apologises to Janine and is slowly on his way to being forgiven by Jamal.

It’s great.

He’s great.

“You look like shit,” Yvonne tells him.

He scowls. “You work me too hard.”

She squints. “I doubt that. Anyway, we still need to try on costumes. Competition’s in a few weeks, we’ll have to learn how to move with them on and be comfortable with it. ”

“We haven’t even picked the songs yet, but whatever you say, Yev.”

Yvonne stops and watches him for a few seconds. “What’s wrong with you?”

“I’m great. I’d love to stay and chat, but I have a thing in half an hour. Bye.” He kisses her on the cheek and leaves the studio for Baker Street.

But he doesn’t go  _in_ the telephone booth. He just stares at it before passing it by.

Eggsy takes out his green mobile and dials up Wiltshire. “ _Gary_.”

“I don’t wanna sound needy, but when you coming back?”

There’s a chuckle. “ _Careful, now. Some people might think you’re that desperate to get hit_.”

“Oi, I hit you back.”

“ _Because I let you._ ”

Considering the bloke’s an ex-SAS soldier, it’s probably true, but that doesn’t make it less annoying. “How dare you--I want a rematch.”

“ _Patience, Gary. Soon._ ”

Good.

Somehow this is all working to plan. He’s already used two of the tiny weird metal things from the envelope. He’s left one in the car and the other in Cavendish’s studio. Now he just has to drive it home. To be honest, undercover work isn't all that he thought it would be. It’s mostly just planning and waiting, and it’s tempting to let his guard down every now and then because it gets  _so_ boring.

Eggsy needs something fast-paced, something rough. He’s itching for a fight, and Lucas Wiltshire’s willing to give it to him in a friendly match of proper boxing. The bloke probably thinks he’s mentoring him, and that’s fine, Eggsy plays that part too. He’ll have to make a show of progressing to reveal what level he actually he is. Which is a bit reckless, he knows. It would be better if they thought he was  _entirely_ helpless and weak.

But again. That’s boring. That’s typical. It wouldn’t be realistic.

Eggsy doesn’t realise where his feet are leading him to. He doesn’t even really realise where he is until he’s sitting on a bench, sucking on a lollipop, watching the scene in front of him.

There’s a lot of people in Hyde Park.

It’s a public space, he shouldn’t be all territorial about it. But fucking  _tourists_ , man.

Out of spite, he considers stealing from them again.

But of all the things he has to do, his jobs, his responsibilities, this is his short moment of peace.

He’s not gonna waste his time.

Eggsy just stands up and moves to a shadier area away from the sun, less crowded, inbetween the closely grown trees.

Sitting on the ground and leaning back against the trunk, he closes his eyes and curls up, alone, and catches up on sleep.

 

\--»

 

Harry jolts up in bed, disoriented. He doesn’t even remember falling asleep. What he does remember is a nightmare about Lee Unwin dying over and over, his dead eyes boring into Harry’s, accusing.

Glancing over to the bit of light in the crack between the curtains, Harry attempts to get his breath to settle.

It’s the middle of the day. For fuck’s sake.

Nightmares about Lee Unwin aren't anything new, but it has been a very, very long time since he’s had them. This time around, the accusation in his eyes are more vivid than before. It’s not only just for his death, not anymore. Now, Harry’s transgressions against his family has doubled in size.

Nevertheless, the damage has been done.

Harry must take responsibility and follow through. However, he must also plan a way to gently reject her advances. Even now, he still isn’t entirely certain if Michelle’s invitation was meant to be romantic. While Eggsy certainly saw it that way, the possibility of it simply boggles Harry.

Yes, Harry has been kind and has been giving her attention, but Harry’s also the man who got her husband killed. He legitimately thought that would counter any incoming attachment from her side.

In the case that it is indeed romantic, it might be better to steer her attention to someone else or be undesirable to the point where she changes her mind and rejects him instead. Harry would have to do it in a way that’ll still leave him in Unwin’s good graces. He’ll have to remain well-meaning, kind, and polite. That’s simply necessary if he wants to stay involved in their lives.

He doesn’t want to hurt Michelle in any way, shape or form. Anything that will ruin what’s left of her self-confidence is out of the question.

Harry will have to go through the motions and get a sense of what would discourage her from pursuing him--if that is indeed the case.

What’s really tempting is going over to the bookshop simply to browse around. He has unfinished books to read in his house, yes. But maybe there will be something new that will catch his interest and propel him to read for hours.

But Eggsy wouldn’t want to see him.

And Harry needs to wean himself off of him and regain some sanity back, if not his self-control. He’s been failing miserably these past few days.

Other than helping Michelle out, Harry has to either put himself under quarantine in his own home or go back to HQ.

As it is, he simply goes to take a shower and redresses his wounds. In a few days, he’ll have to go to his medical check-up and he’d rather not give Merlin another reason for a lecture.

When Harry catches a glance of himself in the mirror, finds himself in doubt for a split-second. It’s so very strange that he finds himself frozen and looking simply to make sure whether or not it is really him.

The movements he makes are reflected on the mirror, and the face staring back at him is familiar.

By sheer memory alone, he knows deep down that he’s staring at himself. Yet a part of him hesitates to confirm it.

Harry holds his own gaze for a few seconds longer.

Of course it’s him. Of course. Who else could it be?

He looks away, ignoring the distant panic on the rise.

 

\--»

 

Eggsy doesn’t want to go home. He’s tired, yeah, having had his dance lessons with Yvonne since morning and his actual job along with the undercover thing that he has to stay on top of. Planning what to say and  _how_ to say it occupies his time. He’s constantly checking his messages and carefully thinks of when to send it, because that’ll show whether or not he appears too keen.

In addition to all of that, he’s been giving into the determined urge to brush up on his morse-code and practice until he can smoothly tap it out with his fingers. That's the main thing next to the way he bounces his feet. They're always moving anyway, restless. Maybe he can do something with that and make it useful. But Eggsy always makes a mistake somewhere in the process and it fucks him up every time to the point where he wants to snap and hit things.

It’s exhausting. Everything is.

But he doesn’t want to go home. He doesn’t want to walk in on something he doesn’t want to know about.

It might be dramatic of him to actually think of sleeping on the streets, but he genuinely considers it.

Eggsy manages to stay out until nine in the evening.

When he goes home, he’s quiet and tentative just in case he’s interrupting something.

Thankfully, there’s nothing.

He’s in the kitchen packing his snacks for the next day when he hears a door open. Soon enough, his mum shuffles in wearing her pyjamas, clearly about to go to bed, but she’s holding a folder which she places on the counter next to him.

Eggsy raises an eyebrow.

She frowns. “You haven’t been home enough, so I couldn’t give it to you. You’re gone in the morning by the time I wake up for work, and you’re still not home when I get get back.”

“Yeah,” Eggsy distracts himself by stabbing a straw through a random juice-box, “I’ve been busy.”

“Doing what?”

“Yvonne--” He chokes on juice. It’s  _apple_ juice. What the fuck? He squints down at it, unsure what reality he’s living in. How did this get in the cupboards? He was pretty sure there was only mango-pineapple the last time he checked.

“Eggsy, I know you’re young, but I doubt you’re doing your girlfriend from sunrise to sunset.”

Appalled, he whips her head back to her, confused by what the fuck she’s talking about until he remembers what he just said. He stutters, “I’m not--I  _meant_ she has a dance competition. I’m helping her practice all day, on top of my job and everything.”

His mum perks up. “She dances?”

He narrows his eyes at her badly hidden enthusiasm. “Yeah, why?”

She leans on the counter and looks around, avoiding Eggsy’s stare. “...Maybe you should invite her to Lestrade’s party.”

Eggsy scowls. “No. It’s not our party to invite people to, mum, honestly.”

She sighs. “I’m sure Lestrade wouldn’t mind you inviting your girlfriend along. You’d have someone your age to talk to at the party.”

Instead of telling her he’s not actually going, he tries to divert her attention by tapping his fingers on the folder. “What’s this?”

Huffing, she gives in and moves on. “Mr. Hart offered to teach you some things.”

Eggsy’s brain goes blank and he just blinks, unable to make sense of anything. “What.”

“He believes in you," His mum says, soft but proud, “He believes you’ll go places and do great things, Eggsy.”

For a moment, there is only silence.

But Eggsy huffs, then laughs, short and erratic. His mum is looking at him strangely, and he doesn't know what to do, he doesn’t know what to say. Because he feels nothing.

Eventually, he clears his throat. “Sure, okay.”

“‘Sure’, as in you’ll take the lessons?”

A scoff escapes Eggsy before he can control it. “No.”

Her brows knit further in concern and he excuses himself, “It’s late, I’m sorry. I haven't even taken a shower yet. I’m knackered. Let’s talk tomorrow, yeah? You have work too.”

“Well, yeah, but--”

He kisses her on the cheek and moves fast towards the bathroom. “G'night.”

Eggsy doesn’t even know what those lessons are about, but his answer is no.

“I’ll just leave it here for you to check out in the morning, yeah?" She calls out. “He’ll be coming over tomorrow.”

Eggsy screeches to a halt. He turns around, slow, expression blank. “Again? Or is this the actual date this time?”

She gawks. “No, there isn't even--How--Did he say--”

“No, I was on my way up the stairs, I heard you ask him.”

Shaking her head, she huffs. “He just said he’ll check his schedule. It doesn’t mean anything.”

Eggsy manages to keep his hackles down. He questions her, tone flat, “He hasn't gotten back to you yet?”

“Well, he hasn't come over today. I was busy with work, I was doing overtime, and he knew that, so I guess he was just being polite. And he hasn't texted, so maybe he's busy. Or maybe he's just not...you know, interested. Which is fine." She shrugs lightly.

His mouth thins.

“No, it ain't. You’re aces, you know that? It don’t matter what other people do, mum, or what other people  _don't_ do--Don’t forget that. You made it this far," He tells her, “No matter what life threw at us, you got us  _both_  here. Not a lot of people coulda handled that. You’re amazing. Everyone should be interested.”

With her raised brows, she’s looks like she’s been caught off-guard, eyes watering and all, and Eggsy wants to die. Because it’s true, his mum is great and hard-working and she’s done her best all these years for the both of them and she deserves all the nicest things.

Suddenly, she huffs, sniffing and awkward. “What’s going on with you? You’re so dramatic. Go on, you. Off to the shower you go.”

Even as she waves him off, he finds himself asking, “What time will he be here tomorrow?”

“In the morning, he said.”

“...But you have work.”

“Oh, it’s not for me. It’s for you and your lessons," She gestures back to the folder on the counter.

Eggsy glances at it. “Lessons. Huh. M’kay,” He says for the sake of it. “G’night, mum.”

“Goodnight Eggsy.”

After taking a shower, Eggsy charges the mobile that Cavendish gave him alongside his gold and chrome Nokia. He sets an alarm for five fifty-five.

 

»

 

By the time six-thirty comes along, Eggsy’s already on the tube.

He ends up on Yvonne’s doorstep, and she answers, looking as tired as he is with narrowed eyes. “Gary, what is this bullshit?”

“I’m tired, I need a nap.”

She stares at him and he stares back. He notices her eyes are slightly red, along with the dark circles underneath. Before he can even ask or tell her that he’s changed his mind and that he’ll leave, Yvonne huffs, opening the door wide and beckoning him in. “Not a word. I haven’t even put any make-up on, I swear to god, Unwin.”

As he makes his way in and takes his shoes off, he finds himself assuring her, “Don’t worry, I took a shower.”

“Good to know.”

It’s dark in her room. The only source of light comes through the curtains. He sets his rucksack down on the floor before falling on the mattress and curling up, eyes closed. It’s still too fucking soft, but he’ll take it. He feels the bed dip beside him and there’s only silence for a while.

As tired as he is, he huffs, “What’s wrong?”

“There’s nothing wrong.”

Eggsy mutters against the sheets. “Yev, you look good even without make-up. Who made you cry?”

“Fuck off,” She tries to retort, but it lacks heat. “I wasn’t crying.”

“M’kay.” He shifts in place, trying to get comfortable.

Eventually, it comes, small and quiet.

“Alicia got accepted to Westminster for sixth form. She didn’t tell me for like, half a year.”

_...Shit._

He peeks an eye open, wary of tears and emotion. Slightly propped up with pillows behind her upper back, Yvonne’s just staring down at her fiddling hands placed on her stomach.

Eggsy doesn’t know what to fucking say, but he tries anyway. “Why didn’t she tell you?”

“She said she didn’t know how.” Yvonne shrugs lightly. “Said that things got busy and she just forgot.”

The silence is heavy despite the way she keeps her head up.

There’s a nagging sense of dread that makes him queasy.

Because Yvonne Jansen is strong and he can see just how hard she’s clenching her jaw, but it doesn’t stop the slight tremor on her tightly-pressed lips.

He finds himself averting his gaze, staring down at the sheets. “So...she’s not gonna be in Holland Park this year?”

“Nope. Not ever.” Her fingers start to curl up, but she eventually manages to flatten them out as if she’s doing her best not to clench her hands into a fist. “Her family isn’t really that well off, but she’s good enough to get a bursary for Westminster. Alicia has these dreams of going to Harvard. Westminster will help with that.”

“Damn. Harvard? Shit. Like,  _Harvard_ , Harvard? That’s far.”

“Mmm.”

“Aren’t you rich? Can’t you transfer if you want?”

“Deadlines, Gary. Last year,” She replies, “My parents urged to me to apply a year or two ago. I didn’t do it. I thought--” She cuts herself off and slides down the pillows, turning her back to him.

_...She thought she’d stay with her,_  It dawns on Eggsy.

Somehow, Yvonne’s misery is getting to him.

Still, he finds himself trying to comfort her. “You know, Westminster is literally like four miles away from Holland Park. You can just take the tube and you’re there.”

“That’s not the point,” She maintains, “She won’t have time. She’ll be in boarding school for sixth form, she’ll be studying all the time, and she’ll be surrounded by all these people and--” Yvonne’s shoulders hunch, tense. Her whisper is barely audible. “She didn’t tell me.”

“...Are you angry?”

“No,” She answers immediately. “I’ll get over it.”

Eggsy only has a view of her back, but he can see her arm slightly move, like maybe she’s wiping away tears or something and this is fucking  _horrendous_.

“What are you gonna do?”

“What do you mean?” She questions, casual. “There’s nothing to do. This is good for her. I’m happy.”

For fuck’s sake.

“...Do you want a hug?”

“No,” She denies vehemently, “Shut up. You tell anyone about this, Unwin, I swear--”

“Oi, I ain’t no grass.” He mutters, offended.

Yvonne huffs. “Go to bed.”

In the silence, he’s barely awake but he finds himself persisting. “...You sure you don’t want a hug?”

“Tsk,” Yvonne clicks her tongue, but she’s blindly reaching a hand back and Eggsy takes it. She pulls his arm to wrap around her waist and he scoots closer. He’s already sore as it is, he’s not gonna strain himself all the way from here. She huffs again, “If you tell anyone about this, I’m ripping you to shreds.”

“M’kay,” Eggsy murmurs, forehead against her soft hair, ready to fucking sleep for ten years.

 

\--

 

Harry has been here waiting for hours. He’s been going through the motions. But there's only so much to do in the Unwin flat without breaking any sense of privacy and propriety.

Sitting rigid on the barstool and gazing out into the small space, an idea from deep within his mind resurfaces. While his first instinct to put it off, he considers that maybe it's time to take it seriously.

Barely registering is the brief vibration of his mobile, and he has to fight himself to actually bother picking it out of his pocket.

 

**09\. 08. 2007 - Merlin:**

_Your appointment. Arthur’s out of the country. Take your chance._

Harry stares at the words for a long time before glancing at the closed folder left on the counter.

 

\--

 

Eggsy shifts awake, relishing the feel of stretching as wide as he can. He yawns and smacks his lips, nuzzling back against the sheets.

“...Shit. You’re cute.”

He blinks his eyes open. The room isn’t as dark as he remembers it to be. The sun’s clearly up higher outside.

It all comes back to him as he watches Yvonne staring at him. She’s barely a foot away beside him, front on the mattress, legs bent back in the air, moving in motion with the pen she’s tapping on her mouth.

Eggsy frowns. “Are you trying to seduce me?”

Yvonne snorts and focuses back on the notebook in front of her, scribbling along. “Just because I cried at you?  _Gary_ ,” She chides, laced with overly-sweet sarcasm, “Is this where you offer a pity fuck?”

He squints. “It wouldn’t be a good idea, but I guess I really don’t care.”

“That’s sweet." She rolls her eyes. “What about the fire brigade?”

“What?”

“Tsk. Costumes, Gary. Costumes.”

“Call me Eggsy for fuck’s sake," He tells her distractedly.

“Costumes,  _Eggsy_. Costumes.”

He huffs and turns to peek over at what she’s working on. It's a mess of words and shapes and scribbles and arrows he doesn't want to bother decoding. “Have we even narrowed down the songs? We’ve gone through like, seven. Why don’t we just do the Tila Tequila one?”

“Because as much as I love it, it’s tacky.”

“And ‘ _Drop It Like It’s Hot_ ’ isn’t?” Eggsy’s so appalled he’s already awake.

Yvonne sends him a superior look. “We’d be doing a twist to it. There’s a reason why I push you in ballet. You’ve got to believe in my  _vision_.”

He stares at her as she goes back to the notebook, and it’s a bit bizarre considering how fucked up she was before. Other than how she acknowledged it, it’s like it never happened. Yvonne’s all business.

“There’s always ‘ _Sexy Back_ ’," He finds himself saying.

She suddenly raises a finger and a severe eyebrow in warning.

“Don’t. Never ‘ _Sexy Back_ ’. Ever. It’s just overdone.”

He gawks and argues, “It’s either that or ‘ _Candy Shop_ ’."

Yvonne scoffs. “You’re just obsessed with it, aren't you?”

Eggsy purses his lips. “I don't know what you’re talking about.” He shifts to lay on his front and peers over her notes again. “And if I have to be honest, ‘ _London Bridge_ ’ and ‘ _Fergalicious_ ’ were our best.”

She raises an eyebrow, saucy, “You want to be my witness as I be up in the gym just working on my fitness?”

Giving up, he groans. “You’re the worst.”

There’s a quick buzz from somewhere, and he peeks up enough to see how fast Yvonne’s hand slips under one of her pillows to retrieve her mobile.

He can't even make a joke because he just sees the way her eyes glaze over, and he knows who it is.

Eggsy genuinely wonders, “I thought you weren’t angry.”

“I’m not,” She says, setting the phone down before pushing her face against the bed like she’s trying to suffocate. He can’t help but peek at the message.

**09\. 08. 2007 - Alicia:**

_I’m sorry!!! Can we meet to talk? Your favourite café?_

The mobile buzzes again and again, and just as quick, she automatically checks the next messages. It’s almost like she can’t help it, and he’s legitimately unsettled but he doesn’t really know why. Maybe it’s because he somehow feels bad for her.

Yvonne frowns, and Eggsy cranes his head slightly to peek again.

**09\. 08. 2007 - Alicia:**

_For forgiveness points, I was browsing around the internet & I found this song_

**09\. 08. 2007 - Alicia:**

_It’s like, unreleased, from a non-established artist but I thought it was perfect for you?_

**09\. 08. 2007 - Alicia:**

_For your dance competition I mean_

**09\. 08. 2007 - Alicia:**

_You could totally win the prize with this! rapxb.mp3_

At this point, Eggsy just has his chin propped up with a hand as he watches her. Yvonne finally seems to notice and she immediately angles the mobile away like that does anything.

He rolls his eyes at her glare. “Well, come on then, let’s hear it.”

“No.”

“Yev,” He sighs, “You just said you weren’t mad.”

“I’m not,” She claims.

They battle with their gazes before she huffs, begrudgingly turning away to download the mp3 on her mobile before playing [it](https://drive.google.com/file/d/0B6aF7_1BmgYpS3g2Q21CMW9Tb28/view?usp=sharing).

The piano starts, and it immediately reminds him of ballet and the grace that is Yvonne Jansen in her pointe shoes. But then the vocals come on and it’s completely  _so_  unexpected that his brain short-circuits.

Wide-eyed, he turns to Yvonne.

She looks distressed as he does, but it’s probably for a different reason entirely, because her expression is barely holding it together until she starts looking embarrassingly endeared.

_‘_   _~~_   _Ice-cream pussy, chocolate-chip cookie, kitty cat nookie, I’m a rap bitch_   _~~_   _’_

Eggsy’s mouth is still wide fucking open. He can’t imagine pure and angelic Alicia Longman just...

He narrows his eyes at Yvonne.

Even as the song ends, she doesn’t do anything but avoid his gaze.

“Yev, you gonna go meet up with her or what?”

“No.”

He’s actually frustrated about it more than he should be. “Why don’t you just tell her how you feel?”

“Feel? What  _feel_? I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“She literally just sent you a song about ice-cream pussy and said it reminded her of you, what the fuck,” Eggsy bursts out.

“Well, she’s good like that. A good judge of character, I mean. Was she wrong? No. This song  _is_  me,” She emphasises. “Alicia’s just like that. She thinks of other people. Despite the mistake of not telling me about Westminster, she’s still a good friend.”

Now, Eggsy’s the one trying to suffocate himself on the mattress, groaning. Gaining a sense of motivation, he looks up at her, serious. “A friend?”

“Yes, a friend. Nothing more.”

“So if I told you I wanted a fuck, what then?” He challenges instead, because Eggsy doesn’t know how to ask her whether or not she’ll feel like shit if she messes around with someone else, if she’ll feel that roiling despair at the pit of her stomach, like she’s done something wrong.

But Yvonne’s behaviour shifts, and she’s back to how she always is, innocently provocative as she raises an eyebrow. “Why,  _Eggsy_ ,” She husks out, pushing the notebook and mobile away and inching in closer, “I always consider fucking. It’s just a thing.”

Her hand is on his chest, and he inhales sharply.

Because it would make sense, the two of them. They’re both sad and pathetic, fucked up over someone else. And he finds himself glancing down at her mouth, considering the possibility. It’s more real than it ever has been.

From the way her smug expression slightly falters for a second, she must figure out that he’s not gonna make excuses this time around. There aren’t any. Not anymore.

Yvonne tilts her head. “...Yeah?”

His hand comes up to lightly grip at her wrist. “...Yeah.” He nods, licking his lips.

She watches him carefully as she shifts, gradually moving a leg over until she’s sat on top of him. “...Yeah?”

Eggsy ignores the dread. There's no reason for it to be there in the first place.

His other hand settles on her hip. “...Yeah.”

“What about your girlfriend?” She teases, hushed, bearing down on his crotch, testing.

“It was never meant to be,” He says, quiet.

There’s a sympathetic quirk of the mouth at that, and she begins to lean in close, slow. He knows he has to meet her halfway, and so he does, he reaches to kiss her, to kiss someone else.

Because his first time never counted.

But before their mouths even touch, there’s a vibration that breaks the tentative silence in the room. Within a split-second, Yvonne’s turning her head to the side, rolling her eyes and huffing. “Sorry, let me turn it off.” She goes to find her mobile, but a familiar tinkering [melody](https://drive.google.com/file/d/0B6aF7_1BmgYpU1VzR3J6LXdqLUU/view) starts to play and Eggsy finds himself tense.

Yvonne frowns at her mobile. “...Yeah, that’s not mine.”

Frozen, Eggsy does nothing.

She stares at him oddly before getting this really mischievous expression. Suddenly, Yvonne gets off him to ransack through his bag.

Eggsy’s too slow, and she scoffs at the screen of his gold and chrome Nokia before pushing him back down on the bed to straddle him. “This is a very strange mobile,” But she presses the highlighted green button and answers the call, slightly breathless. “Hello? Hazly Wobbles? What kind of name is that?”

Eggsy can only hiss, and she raises an eyebrow, pulling the mobile away from her ear and mock whispering, “It’s silent on the other end.” Yvonne puts the phone back to her ear, leaning back too far for him to reach. “Hello? Who’s this?” She questions, cheeky and pouting, “Are you his drug dealer?”

Finally, Eggsy moves, straining forward and toppling her over on her back, making her grunt. Yvonne snorts, out of breath and spiraling into giggles as she wraps her legs around his hips. “Ooh,” She taunts, “ _Eggsy_.”

Before he can even snatch the mobile away, she gawks, turning her head to stare at it and frown. “The call dropped.”

His hand curl around the phone uselessly.

Despite the way his pulse is racing erratically, he feels nothing.

That is, until he notices the time on the screen. “ _Shit_ \--Is it really half past two already?” He frantically begins to untangle himself from her. “I have work in thirty minutes-- _Jesus_ , I can’t believe you let me sleep this long, we didn’t even get to practice at the studio.”

Yvonne sits up, straightening her clothes and shrugging. “I think we needed it. So remember this the next time you complain I work you too hard,” She arches an eyebrow. “Remember my mercy. It won’t happen again. Prepare to suffer.”

He hastily shoves the mobile in his rucksack and hoists it over his shoulder. “Ice-cream pussy?” Eggsy checks before he leaves.

She narrows her eyes, considering. “I’ll put it on the list.”

 

»

 

Eggsy doesn’t have to think about anything during work because fucking  _tourists_.

They’re good for business, yeah. But there’s literally like a dozen of them at once, and this shop is so small. There’s also the basement downstairs to keep watch of through the CCTV camera, so he has to keep glancing back at the computer screen as he double-checks some inventory  _while_ being on the lookout for anyone who’s thinking of trying something in real-time.

Which is ironic, now that he thinks about it. To think that  _he_ would be the one on the other side, ready to take down thieves. In a bookshop, no less.

Still, he smiles at them, charming as he can. It’s only professional and polite. When they come up to buy something, he finds himself asking about them like he actually cares.

“You were flirting,” Max teases as they close down later on.

“No, it’s called ‘life is boring and I’ll take anything to keep my mind off it’.” Eggsy rolls his eyes.

“You wanna go to the pub?”

Eggsy suddenly remembers that he’s missed the chance to have some honey whisky at Yvonne’s place. Damn.

He’s about to open his mouth to reply, but Max immediately backtracks like he’s remembered something. “Nevermind.”

“Oi, you just don’t offer something and take it back,” He complains. Not that he minds. He was gonna say no. But it’s the principle of the thing.

Max raises his hands slightly, “Maybe when you’re of age. I don’t want your step-dad hunting me down. I just keep feeling like he’s gonna pop outta nowhere, I swear it, Gary.”

Eggsy’s lips thin, and he’s ready to keep to himself as they make their way on out, but he finds himself teasing Max, over-dramatic in his innocence and fluttering his lashes. “Well, you could always just take me home.”

“What?”

Eggsy snorts. “Did you hear what you’ve just said, though? It sounded like you were taking me to the pub for a drink just to bring me back to your flat for a shag,” He points out, incredulous.

Max’s brows furrow before his eyes suddenly go wide. “Shit. Now I’m thinking about it.” The moment he realises what he’s said, Max immediately covers his mouth.

Eggsy gawks.

Max pulls his own hand away to explain hastily. “Not like think about it _think about it_ , not for ‘reals’, like I just had a mental image of---”

Eggsy raises his eyebrows, having the most fun he’s had all day.

Hiding his face with both hands, Max groans. “I’m twenty-seven, turning twenty-eight. Leave me alone.”

“Shit, you look younger, congrats--”

“I’m young at heart,” He defends.

“But that’s only like, what, twelve years?” Eggsy teases.

“Even if I wasn’t straight, Gary, you’re still underage,” He points out, glaring through his fingers.

Eggsy rolls his eyes. “Take your hands away, you’re gonna walk into a pole.”

It’s only eight in the evening by the time he’s walking up the stairs to his flat, but the sun’s already fucked off enough to leave the sky slightly grey. Sunset should be in half an hour tops, and he considers wasting his time to wait and just watch from the balcony, but the mobile in his pocket vibrates.

“Hello?” He fishes for his keys, one-handed.

“ _Gary_ ,” Cavendish greets, “ _Terribly sorry for the convenience, but has Lucas been in contact? I can’t reach him._ ”

First of all, Eggsy’s just a kid they met like, barely a week ago. This is a  _bit_ ridiculous. Don’t they have other people to check through before calling him?

“No, not today, guv. Sorry,” He opens the door. No one should be in and his mum shouldn’t be home for another half an hour with her overtime thing, so he doesn't hesitate to talk out loud. “D’you want me to check for you though?”

“ _It’s fine, Gary, thank you for offering. Surely it’s nothing--Oh,_ ” He seems to realise something. ” _How terribly rude of me. How was your day?_ ”

“I’m fine, Cav,” Eggsy huffs as he makes his way straight to the kitchen. He doesn’t even bother turning on any of the lights. It’s a bit dim in here, but he appreciates how his mum left the curtains drawn against the windows, that way the heat doesn’t bake the flat while they’re away. “How was yours?”

“ _‘Cav’_?” Cavendish questions, mock-outraged. “ _Henry Hartington will do, truly._ ”

Scrunching his nose, he keeps the mobile between his ear and his shoulder, searching through the cupboards and trying to figure out what he can make for dinner. “Nah, guv,” Eggsy holds his ground, “It’s either Cav or banana man.”

There’s something like a choking noise of despair on the other line and Eggsy chuckles until he realises the possibility that he’s actually strangling someone. Eggsy grits his teeth and pushes the thoughts away. It can’t be true. At least not right now. His brain’s being extra dramatic.

“ _Gary,_ ” Cavendish sounds like he’s sulking, “ _You’re being very naughty._ ”

“Oi, it’s my ‘refreshing personality’, that’s what it is. Didn’t you say you liked that,  _Henry_?” The moment it leaves his mouth, he knows he doesn’t like it, saying his name.

“ _I suppose so_ ,” He allows, long-suffering. “ _Have you played any football? Taken up my offer by any chance?_ ”

“No, not yet. Why? You gonna come and see me?”

“ _Time permitting, Gary. This photoshoot is taking longer than scheduled. Did you open your box yet?_ ”

“Oh,” Shit, he forgot about that. It’s in his rucksack somewhere. “I--” Eggsy fucking startles at the shadow in his peripherals. It’s pure instinct to throw whatever he can as he whips around to face it--

From the other side of the counter, Harry catches the cup-noodles, expressionless.

Eggsy breathes out in a shuddering exhale, trying to calm himself down.

“ _Gary? Are you alright?_ ” Cavendish questions, concerned.

“Yeah, yeah, I’m--” He turns back to the cupboards, babbling mindlessly while trying to keep his cover, “I’m sorry, guv, I gotta go. My mum’s boyfriend is here. M’really sorry. Have fun. Be safe and all that. Bye.”

He cuts off the call and there’s a heavy stilted silence that he refuses to acknowledge.

Steeling himself, he turns, taking the chance to furtively hide his green mobile in his back pocket.

Harry is unreadable, watching him, eyes vacant. It’s unsettling to say the least, but this is Eggsy’s place and he shouldn’t feel cornered.

”What the  _fuck_?” Eggsy bites out.

“...Who is ‘Henry’?”

Shit.

Shitshitshit.

“My imaginary friend,” He sneers. “What the hell are you doing here so late? You can’t have stayed the whole day, surely you have a life?”

Harry purses his lips, but other than that he remains impassive. “So you  _are_ avoiding me.”

Eggsy somehow feels struck by that, but he retaliates, chuckling without any humour.

“Avoiding you?” He prompts. “Have you considered that I have other things to do? That I’m  _busy--_ ”

“It’s the summer holidays, your job lasts for two hours.”

“I have a life outside you,” Eggsy suddenly seethes, teeth gnashing, breathing rapidly out of sync, “My life doesn’t revolve around  _you_ ,” In anger, he points at him for emphasis.

He notices Harry’s chest heave, like no matter how deep a breath he takes, it isn’t enough, and that doesn’t make sense, so he must be projecting. Because that’s exactly how he feels.

“I know,” Harry says, neutral.

Eggsy scoffs. “Yeah? Do you? Do you,  _really_?”

There’s a nod of something like acceptance. “I’ve always known.”

_Fucking liar. You’re fucking wrong._

_Wrong, wrong, wrong._

But Eggsy keeps his mouth shut, because it sure as hell doesn’t mean he won’t try.

Keeping his calm, Eggsy questions him at last. “What are you doing here?”

“I’m here to talk to your mother.”

Eggsy sucks in his cheeks and bites hard, but he keeps his composure. “Yeah, that reminds me, when you getting back to her on that?” He puts a hand out for the cup-noodles. “That’s my dinner, give it to me.”

Harry stops halfway in handing it over. “Would you like me to cook you something instead?”

“...No. If I wanted to, I could do it myself, and that’s what the microwave is for.”

“Constant microwaving isn’t good for your health.”

“Fuck you, gimme my noodles and answer my question.” He avoids making contact with Harry’s fingers and avoids his gaze.

“You didn’t answer mine.”

Eggsy concentrates on unwrapping the cup-noodles packaging. “It’s none of your business. My mum,  _however_ , is my business. The fact that you haven’t set a time for her yet when you’re the one who’s been leading her on...” He takes the excuse of needing to throw the plastic in the bin to turn away from him.

“That was never my intention.”

“Mhm.” Eggsy puts the kettle on. “But here we are.”

It’s starting to get dark outside, and he considers turning some of the lights on too, but he thinks he likes it better like this.

Except being in the dark doesn't mean he doesn't see the way that Harry seems to hold his head high before he speaks, words clear against the hushed silence. “...I’m here to tell her that I’m free next week."

Eggsy grips at the counter behind him, hidden out of sight.

Of course. Of course that’s what he’s here for.

“And you just couldn’t tell her through a text?”

“To be fair, I was under the impression that we’d have our lessons,” Harry tells him, toneless. “Thus I wasted my time. My mistake.”

Eggsy grits his teeth. He doesn’t have the fucking right to make him feel guilty. But the thought of another argument tires him, so he only sighs. “Why do you even bother?”

“Did you even look through the lesson plan?”

The water in the kettle starts to boil.

Eggsy keeps his eyes on the floor.

“...No.”

The silence spans long enough that the kettle begins to whistle, gradually escalating.

“Look over it,” Harry finally speaks, “Give me a straight answer. I’ll respect your decision.”

Eggsy shakes his head. “No.”

“‘No’? You haven’t even read it.”

_I want nothing to do with you,_ He almost says out loud.

God, Eggsy just wants to forget. Eggsy wants to move on and not remember what it’s like when Harry comes home to him, he doesn’t want to remember the way he tries not to smile and fails miserably, he doesn’t want to remember the dinners, the breakfasts and the outings. He doesn’t want to miss it. He doesn’t want to miss him. He doesn’t want to miss the way he smells and the way his skin feels when they touch.

He’s only fifteen. It shouldn’t be this serious.

He’ll get over it.

Won’t he?

“...You look tired,” says Harry.

The kettle begins to have this shrill sound. Any second now, it’s bound to screech.

Eggsy huffs. “Why, you gonna ask me if I want a hug?”

“...No,” Harry replies, and Eggsy finally looks up to see the way he seems to imperceptibly turn callous. “Not unless you take a shower.”

The kettle screeches, and Eggsy wants to fight him. ‘Cos what the fuck is that shit?

But he flinches at the front doorknob rattling, and he immediately turns to shut the kettle off.

“Why the hell is it so dark in here?” His mum mutters upon entering.

Eggsy’s quick to pour the hot water in his cup-noodles, but not fast enough to take it and all his stuff to his room before his mum greets them.

“Hey! You’re still here, Hart!” She looks pleasantly surprised about it, “You boys have fun?”

Eggsy works hard to stop gritting his teeth, hoping that his smile isn’t as fucked up as he thinks it is. “Yeah,” He tells her. “S’great.”

Harry, the opportunistic fuck, takes the folder on the counter to hand it wordlessly to Eggsy, even when it's clear that both his hands are full. Eggsy makes a show of pouting before opening his mouth to bite and hold it that way. He walks to his bedroom door, pulling off a miracle to open it in his state.

By the time he’s settled, he does his best not to listen to any conversation outside and finishes his meal. He knows his mum doesn’t like it when he brings food in his room, especially because it’s summer, the insects will have a field day. Eggsy really isn’t in a mood to be nagged, so once he has the clothes he’ll change into, he gets out and makes a show of throwing the container out, washing his hands and everything before making his way to the bathroom, ignoring the way the two of them are sat across from each other.

But it’s not a clean escape.

“Eggsy,” His mum calls to him, “When’s the next time you’re free for your lessons? Let’s make it easy on Hart, here. Tomorrow?”

“No. I can’t,” He immediately answers, “I, uhh--Dance rehearsals with Yvonne, then work.”

“Oh yeah, right,” She turns to Harry, beaming, “Eggsy’s girlfriend is a  _dancer_. Did you know that?”

“Oh? No.” Harry tilts his head, briefly looking  _through_ Eggsy. “Dance rehearsals, is that what it is?”

It’s light, it’s mild, and it’s fucking  _rhetorical_. But Eggsy suddenly remembers that Harry had called him earlier at Yvonne’s place.

He fucking hates the shame and guilt boiling away at the pit of his stomach, threatening to make him sick.

Eggsy keeps his head held high, but Harry’s already looked away, like Eggsy’s not interesting enough to even care about for a full three seconds.

His mum goes on, oblivious. “How about Saturday? Don’t you have a day off?”

“Yeah,” Eggsy manages to stop gritting his teeth, “But I promised my mates. We’re gonna have a proper game of footie. Sorry.”

His mum huffs. “What even is a ‘proper’ game of footie?”

“Why? You wanna go and watch? Paddington Rec,” He tells her, knowing she won’t have the time. It’s a bit sad, really. Sometimes he wants her to see him do things, the way parents religiously attend their kids’ games or recitals. But they can’t afford that. He’s always known, and he won’t ever hold it against her.

She frowns. “Don’t you have to pay for that?”

As casual as he can, he shrugs. “Not really.” Eggsy makes an aborted move and gestures the bathroom. “I need to take a shower. I’m tired. We’ll talk, Hart,” He lies, and Harry probably knows it.

 

\--»

 

This situation with Michelle, Harry hates it in more ways that one.

If Eggsy had never seen them together and jumped to conclusions, he wouldn’t be here. He wouldn’t be pathetic the way he is now.

He wouldn’t be, because Harry would have returned to Kingsman without a second look back. He’d be on a mission halfway around the world, followed by another and another. It's the way his life has been for so long. It would be going back to a comfortable routine.

There would be no option to go to the Unwin flat. There would be no excuses.

However, he acknowledges his depravity, the fact that deep down inside, he’s grateful for it.

Or at least he used to be.

What’s the reason for prolonging this torment?

It’s better for him to go back to Kingsman. Despite the dangers, it’s safer for him to be there.

The realisation of it stupefies him.

Eggsy Unwin is more dangerous to Harry than the threats to international security.

Harry must work harder to wean himself off. It’s not as if he’s wanted.

All he needs to do is stick to the goal of helping Michelle and preparing Eggsy for the future.

That’s it. Nothing more.

The moment Harry finally falls asleep, it only feels like a split second before he flinches awake, heart pounding, breathing harshly at hearing Yvonne Jansen breathlessly utter Eggsy’s name.

He gives into drinking a glass of bourbon downstairs.

_Who the bloody hell is ‘Henry’?_  He thinks irritably.

And why does Eggsy seem to have a new mobile? It was only a quick glance, but Harry doesn’t recall ever having given him something of a greenish hue. He should have. It would complement his eyes.

Harry’s grip on his glass tightens, and he stares down at his drink, grinding his teeth. He downs the last of it in one go.

To be fair, it was rather dim in the Unwin flat. It could have been a trick of the light. Or the lack of it.

Harry would have to confirm it.

For now, however, he dozes off.

 

\--»

 

Eggsy’s at Pineapple by eight thirty in the morning. Yvonne’s rented one of the biggest rooms for them to rehearse in, and he’s surprised to see other people there.

Yvonne introduces him. “Everyone, this is Eggsy, Eggsy meet the rest of the gang. They’ll be joining us. Mostly back-up stuff.”

They don’t even look the least bit offended. There’s a half a dozen of them, varying in types and sizes. Eggsy eyes the girl’s bright pink mohican.

“Nice.”

She grins at him. He greets all of them one by one just for the sake of it before they start their warm-up. Later, as the rest of them show off their particular skills, he mutters under his breath to Yvonne who's sat next to him on the floor.

“Ice-cream pussy?”

Yvonne rolls her eyes. “No.”

“But why? It’s perfect. You were talking about that ‘twist’. Ice-cream pussy is key.”

“I think you just like saying ‘Ice-cream pussy’.”

He considers that possibility. “Plausible--but for reals, you don’t even need anyone, you can just play that song and ballet your way through, you’d take first prize. Swear down, Yev.”

“You just wanna do ‘ _Sexy Back_ ’. It’s overdone. Ten years from now it’ll still be playing, I bet my parent’s money on it.”

Eggsy snorts.

They all huddle into a café for a chat after a few hours in the studio. All in all, they’re pretty cool people from all walks of life, and they seem to genuinely like Yvonne and vice versa. Which is nice to know, the fact that she has a life outside of Alicia.

One by one though, they start to leave, and Eggsy and Yvonne are left.

“So,” He begins, “Did you meet her yesterday?”

She flips her hair, avoiding his gaze. “Yep.”

He narrows his eyes in suspicion. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. And I smiled and I forgave her, we talked. As friends do.” She shrugs.

“Did you tell her?”

“Tell her what?” She looks at him, innocent. But after a few seconds, she slightly drops the facade. “I considered it,” She tells him, casual. “I love hearing her talk. She could talk about anything, I’d just be honoured to be there--I could go to church to thank for it. That’s how grateful I am--And she did, she talked. She talked and talked about Westminster, eyes bright,” Yvonne reminisces, “And she talked about that boy who helped her tour around the school. How fit he was, how nice his smile was.” She shrugs again, a close-mouthed smile on her face.

Eggsy feels like shit. Maybe he shouldn’t have encouraged her after all. Still, he just can’t let it go. “What are the chances she’s trying to make you jealous?”

She snorts, shaking her head. “She joked about her chances of him falling for her by the time sixth form is over and asked me for my expertise.”

He squirms in his seat, unable to speak.

"I've told you, she's just a good friend. Just because someone is nice or thinks of you, it doesn't mean they're interested in that way." Yvonne flattens a piece of napkin on the table with her fingers again and again. “It’s not anyone’s fault. It’s just the way it is.”

“...Yeah,” He agrees. It’s all he can say.

 

»

 

“Cav,” Eggsy greets, mobile pressed to his ear as he makes his way to work.

“ _Gary, back with the atrocious nickname. What a pleasant surprise. Are you well?_ ”

“Mhm, yeah, sorry about yesterday.” It doesn’t take that much effort to sound properly embarrassed about it. “Listen, I know you’re busy and important and all that-- _my lord_ \--,” He can’t help but tease, “But um, when are you lot coming back?”

Eggsy’s itching for action. He’ll take anything. Dancing is one thing, but Cavendish and Wiltshire--suppose it’s the underlying danger of it all. He misses boxing. He’s had a taste with it with Wiltshire a few days ago and he wants more. He’s frustrated and he wants to let it go. He wants to move on.

“ _Should be in a few days. Why?_ ”

“Sorry. I don’t wanna sound needy or anything,” He mumbles, “But I think I’m gonna take you on that offer with the football pitch thing.”

“ _You have a particular one in mind?_ ”

“Yeah,” He stalls for a few seconds and asks, timid, “Paddington Rec, you know it?”

“ _Mhm. I’ll notify them._ ”

“Shit, really? Just like that?”

“ _Yes. Why not?_ ” He muses.

Eggsy crows, “You the guvnor, Cav.”

Cavendish snorts.

Eggsy gets straight to the point, playing oblivious. “Are you sure you don’t want something in return or something? It just feels wrong, like I’m taking advantage or something.”

“ _Like what, Gary?_ ”

“Hmm. I dunno. What do you need? Other than modeling. Like, honestly, there’s a lot of better looking people out there,” He huffs.

Cavendish sighs. Suddenly, he’s quiet, serious, and sympathetic. “ _Who ever told you that you weren’t good enough, Gary?_ ”

Maybe it’s because they’re on the phone and they can't see each other's expressions, maybe it’s because he needs to appear vulnerable and he’s just doing his job. But Eggsy thinks of Dean. “Well, no one has to tell me,” He beats around the bush, humourous, glancing around. He’s basically at the front of the bookshop, and the street is busy, but he manages to talk into the mobile like he’s telling a secret. “But my mum’s boyfriend did. Lots of times. And she likes him a lot, values his opinion and all. So it must be true. Why would he lie?”

There’s a beat of silence.

“ _Goodness--Is this the same man from yesterday?_ ”

Eggsy stutters, and it’s completely genuine because he forgot about that.  _Jesus fuck._

“Uh, I gotta--I gotta go to work. Thanks again. Bye.”

Max sends him an inquisitive look, but Eggsy only winks at him and that’s all it takes for Max to roll his eyes and cover his face with something like despair.

Eggsy laughs.

 

»»

 

Yvonne has to attend this fancy thing with her parents, so she’s off for the weekend to Sweden, which is good for her, he thinks. It would help her get her mind off things. Not that she wasn’t doing a good job. She’s always doing better than he is.

As it is, Eggsy spends Saturday morning with Janine.

He hands her a yellow rose he bought off a homeless man in a moment of weakness.

She raises an eyebrow.

He huffs. “It’s the flower of platonic friendship-- _Shit_ , that sounded bad, didn’t it?”

Janine laughs, taking it. “I told you already, it’s not your fault. You’re not to blame.”

Eggsy scratches the back of his head. “Jamal doesn’t think so.”

“He’s overprotective. He’s nice like that. He’ll come around,” She assures him.

“I invited him to play a game of footie for later in the day. But he said no,” He admits, frowning.

“He’s just busy with his apprenticeship. Social work is a tough field, you know.”

“Yeah, but he  _always_ says he’s busy with his apprenticeship.” There’s a sudden tug on his ear. “Ow, ow, ow!”

“That’s because he is,” Janine tells him, finally letting him go, “You’ve got to learn to trust people.”

Now, Eggsy’s the one laughing.

“Someday, Jan. Someday.”

He should probably call Mycroft Holmes to report and give an update. But Eggsy doesn’t feel like it, so, there.

Other than that one text letting him know that she’s gonna be somewhere with shite phone service, Roxy hasn’t contacted him at all. Same with Quinlan. Eggsy tries not to worry too much. He knows he made Quinlan feel the same way, and he’s probably just giving him the same silent treatment for a lesson. But still.

Ryan’s busy with Chelsea. As always. But at least he’s texted him back at arse o’clock, saying he’ll be there for the game later.

To be fair, Eggsy has  _four_ fucking mobiles now. He’s in such a mess because of it. While the black and gold Motorola’s been stowed under his mattress, he uses the oldest Nokia for his main stuff now. Which confuses his mum because she’s been texting him using the Motorola for a while.

Ever since he’s started with this undercover thing though, Eggsy’s extra dose of paranoia urges him to carry the gold and chrome Nokia around, whether hidden deep in his rucksack or stuck in one of his tube-socks as he wears it, settled above his inner ankle. It doesn’t look like a mobile, that’s the thing. If he ever gets in trouble, it'll be a last resort. It’s practical, especially if anyone thinks they’ve taken his only mobile away.

Serial killer-paedophile allegations aside, the green Sony Ericsson that Cavendish has given him is pretty cool. It’s new and has a lot of features and games. But the battery never lasts as long as his Nokias. Or his Motorola for that matter. But that’s not the point.

For show, he makes a habit of using the green mobile just in case he meets with Cavendish or Wiltshire. They need to see that he appreciates it or something. So more often than not, he gives up and doesn’t carry any other mobile save for the gold and chrome one.

Which is why it’s really curious to him when there’s a barely noticeable vibration that tells him he’s just gotten a message. Because only three people know that number. Even though his mum’s number is saved on it, Eggsy's never used it. She doesn’t know about it at all.

Irritably, he takes the mobile out.

**11\. 08. 2007 - Hazly Wobbles:**

_I’m free all day. Surely your game of football is over by now?_

Eggsy squints. Again, that’s curious as fuck. How does he know which mobile to text? Or even fucking call, considering what happened yesterday.

Shit, does he text and call every one?

That’s just so ridiculous. The idea is so laughable that it can’t be true. He shakes his head.

He shouldn’t text back. He could just use the excuse that he’s using the other mobile if it ever comes down to it. But he feels petty. In fact, he feels so petty he waits a fucking hour.

 

‘ _It’s been moved up to later. Sched conflict w/m8s. I’ll be out late. Have fun w/ ur free day_ ’

 

Actually, he’s already set it up for the last available hour of the day, which is from half past eight in the evening.

“ _How are we even gonna play with just the two of us?_ ” Ryan complains, “ _And also, what is this number? This is the second time you’ve called from it, did you get another phone?_ ”

“S’complicated, it’s for work,” He tells him. “And just get whoever you can, I don’t care. It doesn’t have to reach twelve people, as long as it’s even.”

It’s been so long since he’s let himself really unwind. Eggsy feels like everything’s been leading up to this. He can’t wait until eight thirty comes along.

 

\--

 

Harry’s not entirely a fool. He’s completely aware of the possibility that Eggsy’s lying. It’s easier to determine when they are both distant the way they have been for the past few days.

It must be why he’s on his way to Paddington Recreation Ground. It’s no excuse, however, for his pitiful deterioration.

This will be his last, he promises.

He’ll return to Kingsman. He’s been delaying it long enough.

Other than setting things right with the Unwin family, he’ll be committed again. He’ll be there if he’s needed--which he’s not. Any other problem can be taken care of remotely.

For now, he simply checks his watch and spends a full thirty seconds standing in front of the recreation ground map, memorising it.

 

\--

 

If Eggsy had his way, Cavendish would be here. It wouldn’t be just to impress him. Eggsy would fake an injury and weasel his way to his home and get the final objective done. He’d return the mobile and make valid realistic excuses to stay away from then on.

But that would be suspicious, won’t it? Suppose Eggsy will just have to stay with him and play ignorant--and ultimately shocked if the accusations were true and Cavendish gets axed for it.

Eggsy keeps the green mobile in his sweatshirt just in case.

As it is, he gears himself up for the game, running in place. He doesn’t just want to play. He wants to fucking win.

His life has such shit lately, and he sure as hell's gonna fight back.

Ryan frowns. “Jamal still ain’t here.”

“Yeah, he ain’t coming.”

“I know, but still I was hoping…”

Eggsy raises an eyebrow. “Why?”

“‘Cos you have that fucking look on your face that means trouble, aight? And Jamal is our moral compass but he ain’t here. I’m uneasy as fuck right now,” Ryan mutters.

Rolling his eyes, Eggsy doesn’t do much to hide the smirk that overtakes him.

Other than the two of them, everyone else on the pitch is made up of people they’ve just asked around for and picked up. He wouldn’t say they didn’t do a good job of quality control. There’s a reason why he let the really arrogant dickbag and his friend join in. The wanker’s currently on the other team and Eggsy can’t wait to see the look on his face when he loses.

It’s late out and most of the people in the place are going home. The sky’s turning dark and the floodlights are already turned on, trained on the pitch.

The time is eight thirty-five, and Eggsy is shaking with adrenaline.

 

\--

 

From afar, Harry catches sight of Eggsy on one of the pitches.

Against all his instincts, he simply walks away and spends the time surveying the area.

The two of them need to talk, but there’s no use in watching him. It’s unnecessary.

It’s part of regaining his self-control.

Eggsy won’t be finished with his game any time soon.

 

\--

 

In the heat of the moment, Eggsy takes off his sweatshirt and throws it to the side.

He doesn’t care about anything right now but this.

Somehow, they’re fucking losing.

And that’s just  _not_ a fucking option.

There’s something wrong.

The floodlights are too bright and he’s too worked up, practically hissing as the runs to kick the ball hard to the other side.

All he needs is a reason to snap, and he swears he’ll fucking do it.

 

\--

 

Brows furrowing, Harry begins to make his way back to where the pitches are.

It’s been more than half an hour. It’s simply precaution. There’s no use of being here if Eggsy’s already gone.

The area of the pitches differ in size, but they’re quite large overall. Each and every one of them are surrounded by green high wired fences, and there really isn’t much of an option for sitting around.

There is, however, a bench under a tree that lies on a slightly elevated mound a considerable distance away. It gives him a better view of the pitch, unhindered by the obstruction of the wire fence.

Glancing at the pitch where Eggsy is, the teams appear to be regrouping.

It isn’t until he’s near the bench that he realises there seems to be trouble.

Harry can hear the yelling now, and from this view, looking slightly down on the pitch, people are holding each other back in an attempt to prevent an altercation.

Some young man is being held back, yelling, “You fuckin’ cheated!”

Eggsy laughs out loud, and even from where Harry is, twenty yards away, it’s clear to him, a melodic  _alarm_.

“Yeah, as if  _I_ started it, you fuckin’ wankenstein!” Eggsy surges forward, but he’s held back by a few people as well.

The other team isn’t doing a very good job of doing so, considering the young man manages to escape their hold and rushes towards Eggsy, aiming a fist for his face.

Harry knows in absolute despair that he’s too far to do anything, and he squares his shoulders, ready to be incensed with furious rage.

But Eggsy avoids the attack heading his way, blocking the arm with his left and forcing it away before striking his opponent’s face with his right.

And that’s--Harry blinks, feet walking backwards on their own accord until the back of his legs hit the bench.

A friend of the opponent manages to attack Eggsy through the element of surprise, and Harry tenses once more.

Every part of him is straining, warring with himself to make his way there. Instead, he grips the armrest of the bench and forces himself to sit.

Because this is what happens.

This is what  _will_ happen if he leaves. Eggsy will get into trouble, and Harry won’t be able to do anything about it. Not personally.

Can Eggsy handle it on his own?

Can Harry stomach it?

Initially turned away from the hit, Eggsy turns back, blood on his face from a split lip. He raises his arm slightly, wiping at his face with the back of his hand.

Something strange happens for Harry.

It’s gradual, the way time begins to slow down.

Harry is a trained operative. He has been for years. He’s been taught how to lie, how to fuck, how to kill--he’s been tortured in many ways that he can’t even count; He’s been hit, he’s been stabbed, he’s been poisoned, he’s been waterboarded, he’s been starved to death, he’s been electrocuted. Bones in his body have been deliberately broken in a way that maximises pain, he’s been left in harsh environments, freezing and scalding.

He’s been trained in all these things, trained to survive them.

But nothing from all that could have possibly prepared him for when Eggsy stares at the blood on the back of his hand--and  _smiles_.

There is no training that has prepared him for the way Eggsy tilts his head, predatory, hands gripping at the hem of his own shirt, the way he suddenly meets Harry’s gaze despite the distance between them.

There is no training in the world for the way the air escapes Harry's lungs in a brutal rush when Eggsy’s smile  _sharpens_ , bright and dangerous, before the boy winks--a rebellious quick action in the slow vortex of time that the both of them have fallen into--and nothing could prepare anyone for the way Eggsy pulls his shirt up, up, up over his head, revealing his naked torso, the fading bruises on his hips  _stark_  against his skin.

When his face can be seen again, there is something  _wild_ in Eggsy’s eyes, something feral in the way he bares his teeth, and there is a brief lull before time shifts again, simultaneously slow and back to normal at once.

Eggsy throws his shirt onto his second opponent’s face before surging forward, tackling him into the ground.

And Harry still can’t breathe.

It’s overwhelming, the deluge of conflicting emotions--The pride, the guilt, the shame, the despair.

Because this boy is not only reckless and vindictive and petulant or kind and caring and brilliant.

No.

As the fight on the pitch continues, it is clear:

Eggsy Unwin is ruthless, cruel and lethal.

This is the boy he loves.

And he’s beautiful.

He’s beautiful, and Harry  _wants_ him.

 

 


	27. 26

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aftermath of the fight  
> +++  
> usual boring slow plot  
> bye

 

**I **

 

At first, it’s unassuming, the way his arousal is tainted with a shallow form of nausea. It’s a constant aggressor, and the curl of heat low in Harry’s stomach emanates until he begins to feel ill with it, right at the back of his throat, threatening to break him as he makes his way towards the pitch.

A part of him wants to turn the other direction and never return, but it has to be done. Because the longer the fight goes on, the higher the chance Eggsy will get into legal trouble, and Harry can’t have that.

He doesn’t have to think. It’s almost as if his body is making the decision for him, one step after another.

Soon enough, some of the people on the pitch catch sight of him and start to take off. With his focused demeanour and his authoritative stride in addition to his bespoke suit, it isn't difficult to deny that he must be threatening.

But that hardly registers to Harry.

Less than half of them still remain, because a handful of them are still hitting each other, rolling on the synthetic grass.

A friend of Eggsy's finally double-takes at Harry and freezes. He clearly wants to flee but it's almost extraordinary how he blindly tries to grab at Eggsy's shoulder despite without much success.

“You," Harry manages, “Leave.”

“Shit," Ryan mutters as he begins to walk backwards before dashing away with the others.

With his left hand, Harry reaches for Eggsy who is bent over his opponent, punching away, and the boy's still shirtless, so what else could Harry possibly do but tug at the top of his sweatpants?

And so he does, _hard_.

But Eggsy is resilient, and Harry’s attempt does nothing even as some of his fingers slip to be caught in the band of the sweatpants. Left hand now clutching at Eggsy's hip, Harry resorts to wrapping his right arm around his waist, pulling him up and up until Eggsy’s standing.

The _wretched_ boy still struggles, and within a split-second, without any conscious thought, Harry’s hand slides up to hold him back by the throat, forcing Eggsy to stumble back against him. Time shifts again, simultaneously slow and normal as the hard line of Eggsy's body presses back against Harry's front.

The arousal skyrockets and Harry is near dizzy with it, even more so when Eggsy _hisses_ , bucking back against Harry in trying to escape.

It shoots straight to his cock.

“For fuck’s sake," Harry utters against the side of Eggsy's head, overwhelmed by his scent, his blood, his sweat, his heat. “Behave.”

Harry forces himself to keep his lower half away from Eggsy's.

Eggsy heaves, and Harry is far too sensitive to everything. With his hand on Eggsy’s neck, Harry can feel the rabbiting pulse, the air that passes through his throat, the way he swallows.

It's Harry's turn to hiss, reaching his mouth close to Eggsy's ear to order once more, “ _Behave_.”

The command comes with a brief, slight tightening of his grip from both hands, and he feels Eggsy's breath hitch. And Harry _knows_ , he knows it's a sound and sensation that will haunt him in his sleep.

Eventually, Eggsy eases up on his struggling. Slightly.

Harry takes the chance to carefully walk them backwards, away from the mess that is the clearly defeated young man on the ground.

A few feet away, Harry spins them both around so that he’s between Eggsy and the recovering opponent just in case Eggsy gets any ideas.

And it’s a precaution well anticipated considering that’s exactly what Eggsy haltingly moves to do once Harry releases him.

Harry firmly pushes him back with a palm on his shoulder, making him stumble backwards.

Flushed red and breathing hard, Eggsy spits at him, “Fuck you.”

“I’m taking you home.” Harry vehemently ignores the connotations of that and how much a part of him wishes that was true. He focuses on the nausea, willing it to overwhelm him and counteract the arousal as he goes to pick up Eggsy's bloody shirt lying on the ground a few feet away. He throws it at him. “Put it on.”

Harry’s aware he’s using the steely tone of voice reserved for situations he frequently faces in his career, and it's a tone he shouldn’t ever use on Eggsy. But despite the stony clench of Eggsy's jaw, he begins putting the shirt on, and that's all that matters for now.

Eggsy’s harsh mutterings briefly halt and Harry sees his eyes go wide.

Someone actually _dares_ to pass Harry by--but it’s only instinct to grab them by the back of their neck, automatically putting a foot out as he yanks them backwards. Within a second, the young man’s back on the ground, gasping for air, severe pain in his expression.

Harry finds himself staring down at him, cold and callous in his slow articulation. “Do _not_ touch what you aren't allowed to touch.”

Despite the fear on the young man’s features, Harry isn’t satisfied. Overcome with the need, he tilts his head, taking a step closer to loom over him directly, to gaze into his eyes and make him _understand_.

But there's a tug on his elbow.

“Shit,” Eggsy curses, “ _Shit_ , okay, alright, let’s go.”

Harry keeps his eye contact for a second longer before letting himself be pulled away at Eggsy’s insistence. “ _Come on_.”

As they go, Eggsy briefly leaves his side to make a run for a discarded sweatshirt on the ground before returning, a hand on Harry's elbow as they quickly make their way out.

 

°

 

The night is cool, but while they’re both settled down enough--Eggsy’s hard-on gone and Harry’s depravity stuffed back into a box--the silence between them is heavy.

Somehow the hand on Harry's elbow has slipped down to hold his hand. Everything is surreal and that is Harry’s excuse for not pulling away.

Eggsy legitimately wonders if they’re just going to walk all the way towards wherever. Harry had said ‘home’, and despite everything that happened between them, the bitterness and the spite, that could mean either way to Eggsy. But considering they seem to be heading north, they’re probably going to the flat.

As slow as they are in their pace, they get there in twenty-five minutes.

They’re making their way up the stairs when Eggsy fails to keep the nerves at bay. Don’t get him wrong, he doesn’t regret one bit of it. That shit was wild. He needed it. But Harry has been silent without any reprimand whatsoever, and he should have pulled away from Eggsy’s hand by now.

He should have, but Harry doesn’t know where his hand ends and where Eggsy’s begins.

By the time they’re stood in front of the door in the very dim light, Harry works to figure it out fast.

Eggsy’s quick to put up a front, but he can admit that maybe he falls short when he scoffs. “What? No lessons for me, _Mr. Hart_?”

Harry’s hand briefly clenches and he begins to slowly pull away, but he finds himself staring at the blood on their hands.

It’s beautiful. It’s beautiful and it’s sickening.

His fingers curl as he pulls away and takes a step back.

Eggsy stares at him. Because there’s something off. The air feels charged with something and it makes him a little brave. A little reckless.

Raising an eyebrow, he goads, “You ain’t gonna come in?”

“It’s late,” Harry manages, “Your mother is in. Probably asleep. It’s best for you to sneak in unnoticed--”

“Aren’t you gonna take the chance to tell on me?” He questions, partly bitter. Harry still isn’t meeting his gaze. He hasn’t since they’ve left. It pisses Eggsy off.

‘ _Aren’t you even a little impressed?_ ’ He wants to ask, ‘ _Aren’t you proud of me?_ ’

“Look at me,” Eggsy lowly orders instead. He doesn’t know where that came from, or where he thought he had the right to do so.

Either way, Harry steels himself, keeping his face blank as he looks at Eggsy. There’s still blood on his face. And god, his _mouth_. Harry shouldn’t want to press on the injury with his thumb. Press on it until Eggsy opens his mouth in a pained gasp.

That’s wrong. _That’s wrong, that’s wrong, that’s wrong._

Harry presses his lips tighter, and to Eggsy it looks something like disappointment.

Eggsy finds himself swallowing and he keeps his head high to compensate. “Aren’t you gonna come in and fix me up?”

Thoughtlessly taking out a handkerchief from his inner suit pocket, Harry can only offer it halfway before he manages to stop himself. It's an awkward position but he holds it. “ _Now_ , of all the times, you want my assistance?”

“Now, of all the times, you ain’t gonna offer?” Eggsy ends in a whisper, taking a step closer until the handkerchief brushes the side of his face.

Harry resolutely keeps his eyes on the dried blood on Eggsy's skin and begins to clean, refusing to look anywhere else. “I’ve spoiled you.”

“...You think so?” Eggsy doesn't make much of a big deal when Harry wipes a little harder.

“If you still need me, you’ll know where to find me in the morning," Harry finds himself murmuring. “Goodnight.”

He sets the handkerchief on Eggsy's shoulder and turns to leave without a look back no matter how wrong it feels not to have done something.

Like maybe kiss him goodnight. Gentle at first, but ultimately devolving into something with nails scraping against skin and--Harry grips at the dull injury on his right arm.

Meanwhile, Eggsy stares into the space where Harry used to be, unsettled and somehow breathless.

 

\--

 

Harry intends to take a cold thorough shower once he gets home and refuses to think any more about it. He has matters to prepare for the morning. He will face Arthur, and he must have an answer for everything.

 

\--

 

Eggsy doesn't have the time or the luxury to mess about. His mum’s home and he doesn't want to wake her up and ask any questions, so he can only take a quick shower. They don’t have a complicated set of a first-aid kit, so he only has sticking plasters and tape hastily wrapped on his knuckles and any other scratches that’s worth wasting it on. His lip stings like nothing else and it constantly ticks him off.

Despite the amount of wank material that Eggsy’s brain has pathetically gathered, the adrenaline’s worn off, and his sore body can barely manage not to stumble into furniture as he makes his way to his room.

As exhausted as he is when he lays in bed, his mind passively replays the way Harry's body had felt behind him, the way the commands were uttered into Eggsy’s ear and the way Harry had a hand clenched on Eggsy's hip and another on Eggsy's throat--but the steady arousal is no match for the confusion when it comes to Harry's behaviour.

Shifty. Harry wouldn't even meet his eyes save for that one time Eggsy told him to.

And that's when the possibility strikes a cold fear into Eggsy’s heart, followed immediately by burning shame and indignance.

Because--Did Harry realise how worked up Eggsy was? Did he notice Eggsy's hard-on despite the loose fitting sweatpants?

Did he finally figure it all out?

Shit.

_Shitshitshit._

Pulse racing, Eggsy panics, trying to suffocate himself on the pillow.

He has to find out.

 

»

 

Eggsy sneaks out by the time his mum is set to wake up. While he's made a bit of an effort when it comes to the clothes he’s wearing, he doesn’t even know what he looks like, if he has any visible bruises yet. There was only one hit that managed to make contact with his face last night as far as he can remember.

It's fifteen past seven by the time he’s striding through the small mew, spurred on by a low pulsing panic that threatens to take him whole. As it is though, he likes to think he manages to do a good job tamping it down as he goes through the achingly routine motions of breaking into Harry’s house.

When he finally enters, he can barely close the door when the nostalgia hits him, overwhelming him to the point of dizziness. Because being _here_ , it’s--

And the _smell_ \--the smell is bizarre.

Because there's no way Eggsy’s struggling mind can compute other than the words ‘ _it's home’_ going on repeat. It's intensely familiar, but heartbreakingly alien at the same time.

He genuinely doesn't know how long he stays there in the foyer, leaning back against the front door like he can't even hold himself up.

Past the heavy heartbeat pounding in his ears, he picks up on the distant steps coming down the stairs.

Eggsy desperately works to put up his walls and hopes he at least looks dignified if he doesn't manage to pull off haughty and arrogant.

The moment Harry enters his line of sight, Eggsy’s stomach churns. Because he’s wearing _that_ suit.

Eggsy knows he has no business in noticing things like this, especially when the suits Harry wears are all sharp and bespoke and similar one way or another--but it’s the dark double-breasted pinstriped one, the one Eggsy’s mind always associates with Harry going to work because more often than not that _is_ what he wears, along with that gold ring on his pinky finger. It’s like a uniform. The kind Eggsy wants to tear off so he can put Harry in cardigans and keep him home.

Or used to, anyway. It doesn’t matter now. Things are different now.

From where Eggsy is, still leaning back against the front door, he squares his shoulders and raises his head. Harry has already stopped at the end of the foyer, watching him with a blank expression.

Eggsy purses his lips. “You’re going back to work.”

“More or less,” Harry answers, neutral.

“Then why the _hell_ did you offer?” He accuses through gritted teeth. It’s barely past seven thirty, it’s pretty early, and Harry’s all ready to go. Which means--

“To be fair, more often than not, you never do take up any of my offers.” Harry takes a single step, still ten feet away.

Baring his teeth, Eggsy scoffs. “Alright--Any offer you make from now on, I’ll remember not to take them seriously.”

“That is not what I meant,” Harry reasons, taking a few more steps towards him. Eggsy wants to turn away, Eggsy wants to leave, to open the door behind him and never return, but he can’t move, especially when Harry stops three feet away and orders, “Show me.”

It’s difficult to keep up a nonchalant front when his body is reacting weird. His heart is beating faster and he feels like he's breaking out into cold sweat. “Show you what?”

“Your hands, Eggsy.”

Eggsy hasn’t even realised that he’s been hiding his hands behind him, pressed between his back and the door. As much as he intends to be petulant, Eggsy’s hands are already moving without his permission, tentatively holding themselves out in front of him. Traitors.

Harry’s hand hovers, never touching, but _fuck_ , the heat of him. Eggsy swallows.

“...Tape and plasters.” Harry states, flat, staring at the hasty attempts of Eggsy’s handiwork.

“...Well, yeah,” Eggsy manages. “The fuck were you expecting?”

“Take them off,” Harry murmurs lowly, and he tilts his head to a vague direction, “Come.”

Eggsy can only take a breath when Harry finally steps back and turns around to disappear somewhere in the house.

 

\--

 

Despite of the sound of Eggsy’s footsteps, Harry focuses on unearthing one of his medical kits deep in the pantry. Setting it on the counter, he searches through his cupboards for the perfect container. He settles for the deep lasagne dish and brings it over to the sink. Harry tests the water first to ensure its warmth before filling the dish with it.

Other than the sound of rushing water, it’s tensely quiet.

It has been a few hours since the revelation last night, and Harry likes to think he’s regained enough self-control. He needs to fix this immediately. He needs space and distance to see things from a different perspective. It’s one thing to be in love with a teenager. To be sexually attracted to one is something else completely. He steels his resolve to not look at him full on unless necessary before he breaks the silence. “Eggsy, take the kit to the living room and set it on the coffee table. I want you comfortable on a sofa by the time I get there.”

Oddly enough, Eggsy follows his request and goes on to disappear.

Harry shuts off the water and goes to find a stack of clean hand towels. Draping a few of them over his arm, he carries the dish to the living room.

Eggsy is sat on one of the sofas, slightly hunched over forward with his elbows settled on his thighs, staring at the floor.

What is this boy nervous for? It’s not as if it matters to him what Harry says. There is no use in reprimanding him, it is clear that he does whatever he wants. Especially when he lashes out, angry and bitter. He’s stubborn in his own observations, his misunderstandings. He’s a teenager. He’s a child.

For fuck’s sake.

Settling the water-filled dish on the coffee table, Harry sits on the sofa adjacent to the Eggsy's and pulls the medical kit closer. As he opens it, he briefly glances at Eggsy again and huffs at the state of his hands. “Eggsy, I did tell you to take them off.”

Even though it appears Eggsy can’t hear him, Eggsy’s hands come together, finger clasping lightly almost in self-comfort. Harry despises the softening of his own heart, hates how gentle he sounds when he sighs his name, slowly reaching with a hand. “Eggsy.”

While Eggsy says nothing and clenches his jaw, he does surrender both of his hands, allowing Harry to quietly work on peeling the plasters and the thin strips of white adhesive tape wrapped over and over a few of his fingers. It takes a few moments for Eggsy to start helping, but even then his efforts are half-hearted.

Harry watches his own hand lightly settle on top of Eggsy’s attempts, and he sees it now, he knows it--it’s an excuse. It’s an excuse to touch him. Pulling his hand back, he manages a neutral tone when he assures him, “It’s fine. I’ll take care of it.”

“...Ain’t you gonna be late for your work or meeting or whatever it is?”

Somehow, even Harry knows that didn’t come out quite as spiteful as it’s meant to be. He only hums in reply, non-committal.

When he gets to the plasters on Eggsy’s main knuckles, he purses his lips at the revealed catastrophe. The wound is crusted with blood. No matter how gentle he is in peeling the plaster, some of the tentative scabs are disturbed, opening a few cuts and reaping in fresh blood from beneath the surface.

Eggsy doesn’t make a sound, but Harry can feel his hand twitch.

“Did you not properly take care of this last night?”

“I took a shower and I patched it up, what more d’you want?” Eggsy mumbles, rubbing at the sticky residues on his hands.

Harry sighs and pulls the water-filled dish closer on the table. “Come.”

He takes his suit jacket off and carefully lays it to the side before slightly adjusting his cuff sleeves up higher--but not enough to show the scars on his arms. He’ll have to take up Merlin’s offer on that scar treatment, at least to the point where his previous injuries aren’t that pronounced on his skin. It’s hardly anything new. Many operatives take that on, especially on the more visible parts of their bodies. It’s easier when honeypot targets don’t ask questions about the jagged marks. But more often than not, Harry had gotten away with it by fucking in dim lighting or with his clothes on, so he had an excuse to keep his scars.

“...Harry?”

“Mmm?” He lays out the towels on the coffee table before patting a space, beckoning. “Your hand, if you would, please.” He dips a finger in the water, assessing the temperature. He frowns. “Check for yourself if it’s warm enough. It might’ve gotten slightly colder. I’ll change it if you’d prefer.”

Eggsy huffs and mirrors Harry, dipping a finger in. “S’fine.”

Harry moves to hover his hand over Eggsy’s. “May I?”

“...Yeah. Stop being so polite, it’s putting me off,” Eggsy complains.

“I’m always polite,” Harry murmurs evasively, gingerly taking hold of his hand before guiding it into the water.

“Uhuh, right. But this is extra, I don’t like it.”

The longer Eggsy’s hand is submerged, the more the dried blood dissolves, staining the water red in mesmerising swirls. Harry’s gaze is transfixed on the languid motions. With his other hand, he blindly reaches for the wipes from the medical kit. “There are things in life that happen, things we don’t like. We must deal with them accordingly.”

“Oh sod off, just fuck me up already.”

Briefly, Harry’s brain functions the wrong way and mishears the words, making him pause in his actions. “Pardon?”

“Aren’t you gonna tell me off? Be mad or something?”

Pursing his lips, Harry gently wipes at Eggsy’s bloodied knuckles under the water. “Clearly you are aware that you’ve done wrong--Do tell me if it hurts.”

“Fuck you,” Eggsy mutters half-heartedly. “Don’t do the ‘I’m not mad, I’m just disappointed’ spiel. You ain’t my parent as much as you act like one.”

Harry’s jaw ticks but other than that, he remains calm and steady in handling Eggsy’s injuries. “If your aim is to antagonise me, please don’t. Not today.”

“Or what?” Eggsy scoffs. “You’re just gonna deny it again, aren’t you?”

“We’ve already had this conversation. I’m not after your mother romantically, or in any other sense than friendship and platonic support.”

Harry hasn’t looked at Eggsy, but he doesn’t even have to do so to know that he’s bristling. “And why’s that? What, she ain’t good enough for you?”

Slowly, Harry takes Eggsy’s hand out of the water and lets it settle on the towels. “You’re very agitating,” He starts casually, reaching for another towel to pat his hand dry. “I genuinely don’t know what you want. One time I think it’s to get away from your mother as far as possible, but then here you are, advertising her pleasing attributes.”

“‘Cos my mum’s great--Fuck you.”

“Yes.” Harry eventually freezes. He clears his throat and braves through it. “Indeed your mother is great, but I am not interested in her in that context.”

Eggsy grumbles. “The fuck does that even mean?”

“We must end this once and for all,” Harry decides, starting to disinfect the cuts and scratches on Eggsy’s hand, “This needs to be settled. You need to understand this. The only reason I agreed to your mother’s proposition was to encourage her steady growth of confidence, as you’ve so aptly said as you threatened me. There is no romantic intent, or sexual for that matter.”

“Yeah, but that don’t mean there won’t be,” Eggsy insists, stubborn as ever. The wretched child. “What if you fall in love or something? You never know. You’re probably repressed as fuck.”

Somehow, Harry can’t stop the short huff of laughter that escapes him. His brows furrow, but he laughs again and again, stilted and hushed.

“Oi.” A few of Eggsy’s fingers grip at his. “What’s wrong with you?”

“You’re terribly perceptive,” Harry admits, soft. “And yet.” He unwraps a new packaging of gauze one-handed. It is clear that he does indeed need to go back to Kingsman. If not for many other reasons, it is this. The more he stays around, the more he lets himself interact with Eggsy, the sooner Eggsy will figure it out. This boy is smart and brilliant, Harry knows it’s bound to happen. By the time Eggsy will have the realisation, hopefully Harry will have gotten his issues under control, if not altogether gone--So that when he denies it, he will be speaking the truth.

“‘And yet’, what?” Eggsy questions.

Pretending not to hear, Harry concentrates on wrapping the gauze around Eggsy’s knuckles, firm but gentle. He hates to admit that it takes longer than it should. He eyes the silver bracelet on Eggsy’s wrist and taps it lightly. “I’ve been meaning to ask about this.”

Eggsy shifts, near squirming. “S’nothing.”

Finishing up with wrapping the gauze, Harry only raises an eyebrow as he makes sure everything is secure but not too tight.

“I didn’t steal it,” Eggsy protests despite Harry’s silence, “My mum got paranoid and dramatic after...you know. And she thought she’d get me a medical bracelet or a tag or something, just in case anything happens or I get lost. But we uh, we didn’t have the money to get it engraved and resized and stuff and we just forgot about it.”

Slowed to a halt by the guilt, Harry’s left holding Eggsy’s hand, unappreciative of the irony. “Would you,” He begins, staring down at their point of contact, “Would you like me to get it done for you?”

“...No. S’fine,” Eggsy answers awkwardly, “It fits me now. Sort of.” There’s a barely imperceptible clasp of his hand on Harry’s. Merely a twitch perhaps.

Harry thinks he sees a remnant of a plaster residue, and that must be why he watches his own thumb circling on Eggsy’s skin. “...I’ll change the water before we move on to your other hand.”

In his peripherals, Eggsy’s hand suddenly submerges itself in the murky water. “Too late.”

Sighing, Harry rolls his eyes.

“S’not even that bad,” Eggsy tells him, adamant, “Stop wasting water.”

What else can Harry do, really?

Resigned, he works at Eggsy’s injured hand with what he likes to think is a detached amount of professionalism. He’s content with the silence, but Eggsy breaks it, goading, “You’re definitely late now.”

“I’m always late,” Harry murmurs mindlessly.

“Well, hopefully not for your dates with my mum,” Eggsy clearly attempts to be casual, but a kind of bitterness seeps through.

Vexed, Harry stops. “Did we just not have this conversation? And it’s just one, there’s nothing plural about it.”

“What do you mean there’s only one? You don’t take someone out on a date and decide there won’t be another one before you even get to the first--”

“There is clearly a misunderstanding. I took responsibility for this one, it’s time to end it before it goes any further,” Harry argues, and he hopes he’s as calm as he wants to be, “Your mother deserves better than a man who can’t love her. You cannot manipulate me to go through with more than one. I refuse to,” Harry stands his ground.

Eggsy immediately pulls his hand away, wiping it hastily with a towel. For the first time, Harry looks at his face, and he thinks he can see something like furious shame. “You started it.”

Harry scoffs, left to stare at the ceiling in desperation. He’s in love with a _child_. It’s moments like these that truly pierce the fact of reality into his conscience. His frustration leaves him gritting his teeth.

“What do I have to do for you to believe me? Must I fuck someone else for you to--” Harry cuts himself off immediately, but the damage has been done if the way Eggsy suddenly goes still is any indication. Eggsy’s shoulders are square and his expression is dreadfully blank. Harry’s stomach churns.

Eggsy’s voice is quiet steel. “Don’t you fucking _dare_.”

Harry braces himself. He’s an adult, it’s time to stop being cornered in such situations, much less by a child. “What I do with my personal life is none of your business. It doesn’t involve you _nor_ your mother--”

“Yes, it does! You--I--You’re leading her on--”

"Not on purpose. That was never my intention,” Harry sincerely counters Eggsy’s brash argument. “Which is also _why_ this must be stopped before it goes any further. It’s cruel. To her, to me. Especially with the way you act--”

Standing, Eggsy scoffs, “The way _I_ act? What--”

Harry stands as well, meeting his gaze head on, “You can’t simply urge me-- _threaten_ me--to do something which you’ll end up hating me for. It’s _absurd_ \--I don’t take your mother out on a date, you get angry. I take your mother out on a date upon _your_ request, you get angry. There’s no point to all this.”

Eggsy protests, but the words are unintelligible and halting in starts and stops. Ultimately, he gives up in an angry guttural noise, breathing hard and hissing, “That’s not fair.”

“Eggsy--”

“You don’t _understand_ , I just--” He paces around. “--I just want her to be happy. And if you make her happy then I--”

“She _will_ be,” Harry finds himself professing, “She will be happy. She’ll get there. It’s a work in progress. She’ll be comfortable with herself, she’ll gain confidence, she’ll interact with other people soon enough. Your mother is doing very well,” Harry tells him, soft.

“Of course she is,” Eggsy automatically says. “I just--You--” He shakes his head, huffing in agitation. There’s more guttural noises that Harry somehow understands completely, unlike the words that follow. “You--you’re good.”

Harry stares, uncomprehending.

“I always thought that no one could possibly match up to my dad, but you--God, _you_ \--you’d be so good for her,” Eggsy admits in despair, and the moment after he says it his face scrunches with something like disgust and bitterness. Harry feels the same way.

“No one is ever _good_ , Eggsy. Including myself,” Harry says, strained. “Regardless, it doesn’t mean I can’t be a supporting figure without the need for romantic and-or sexual overtures.”

Stubborn, Eggsy shakes his head. “I don’t--I don’t trust anyone else. If you don’t take that spot, then who could possibly--”

“Your mother is an adult. She’s made it this far despite everything. She’s strong, Eggsy. You have to trust her.”

“Like I did with Dean?” Eggsy counters, harsh, stepping back. He suddenly looks guilty, backtracking, “Look, I don’t blame her for that. I can’t. She thought she fell in love, that wasn’t her fault. It was a long time since dad and he was there, he was stupid but he was clever, and she couldn’t see it, she didn’t know how he really was and I can’t blame her--”

“Eggsy,” Harry slightly raises his hands, placating, “Things will be different, I promise you.”

 _I won’t ever let it happen again, I’ll do better,_ Harry doesn’t say.

Harry swallows instead and beckons, “Come, let me finish treating your hand.” From the way Eggsy hesitates and looks as if he’s going to leave, Harry lowers his pride, gritting his teeth before calmly urging, “Please.”

He hates saying such things when it comes to genuine situations like these, hates meaning it and feeling vulnerable.

But despite Eggsy’s dubious expression, he starts to take a few steps closer and allows Harry to guide him back. Soon enough, they’re in their previous seats, but Eggsy’s clutching his untreated hand to his chest.

“Eggsy,” Harry softly says, hand hovering over his. Eggsy lets him take it, and Harry tries to ignore the tension, focusing in the familiar motions of disinfecting the cuts, occasionally rubbing off the remnants of plasters here and there.

“Hey,” Eggsy eventually says, and Harry finds his eyes drawn to the clenching of his jaw. It’s then that he suddenly remembers he shouldn’t be looking at him. He averts his gaze.

“Oi, look at me,” Eggsy orders.

For fuck’s sake.

Harry gives him his best neutral expression, waiting.

“Is that the only thing stopping you?” Eggsy asks. Harry doesn’t know what he’s talking about. It must show, because Eggsy continues, “Me being a pissy teenager, is that--Am I stopping you from this thing with my mum?”

Before Harry can even fully sigh out his frustration, Eggsy interrupts him, “I’ll be good.”

Eggsy must definitely believe he’s being sincere, but Harry already knows this is going to backfire on everyone. “Eggsy--”

“I’ll be good, Harry,” Eggsy insists, but he’s clearly grinding his teeth. Harry’s amazed at how Eggsy’s lying to himself. “You want it like that, don’t you? I’ll be good, Harry, I swear it,” He raises his head high and meets Harry’s gaze, unyielding with a bit of goading spite. “I’ll be good for you.”

 _Fucking hell._ The jolt of the arousal that runs through him drives an involuntary inhale through his mouth, short, sharp and shallow. He immediately releases his clutch on Eggsy’s hand and looks away.

But Eggsy is persistent, leaning in close, voice low as he continues to plead, “I swear it, Harry. I’ll be so good for you, you won’t even know what hit you. I’ll even take up your lessons. Whatever you want, Harry.”

Harry has never been so quick to arousal, it’s _maddening_. This boy will be the death of him.

“Eggsy,” He manages, taking care of the bloodied wipes, “I will be gone for a few days. During that time, I hope it finally gets through your head that I am genuinely sincere when I say that I am not interested in your mother. Please.” He picks up a new roll of gauze. “Now give me your hand.”

Surprisingly, Eggsy does. “Why?”

“Work, Eggsy.”

“Obviously. But why aren’t you _interested_? I’ve never seen you seemingly interested in anybody. Every time I think you are, you deny it and shoot me down with no explanation,” He huffs, mulish.

“Because.” As much as Harry attempts to stall, he finds that for all his training and all his experience in his deceitful career choice he genuinely cannot conjure a proper excuse.

“...’Because’ what? Oi--” Eggsy’s fingers move in emphasis, the tips suddenly brushing Harry’s left wrist, slightly reaching past underneath the strap of his watch.

The shock is _ruthless_.

The hiss that leaves Harry’s mouth is purely involuntary, the same way the twitch that his entire body is victim to is uncontrollable--Along with the heat.

God, the _heat_.

He immediately pulls his hand away. In hindsight, even he can see that it was too abrupt, too suspicious. And his pulse is racing, _pounding_ in his ears.

“...Harry?”

He can only hold his left arm close to his stomach as he busies himself with arranging the vials he has to put back into the medical kit one handed.

“Hey--”

Without looking, Harry can sense the hand reaching for him. Avoiding it, he instinctively catches Eggsy’s hand before it touches him, flinching. It has the unintended effect of being faced with Eggsy.

Transfixed by his eyes, he can’t look away.

It’s not for the lack of trying. Time slows as Eggsy watches him carefully, eyes roving around his face, and Harry can only despair, finding the will to turn away.

Cold sweat is a strange sensation when he feels his whole system _flush_ with lecherous heat.

The furrow on Eggsy’s brows eventually disappear the longer they stare at each other. The fear impossibly escalates to an indeterminable level at the possibility of Eggsy figuring it out already. It propels him to finally tear his gaze away--except that he notices Eggsy’s mouth moving to speak and he’s left to stare at his lips before accidentally meeting his slightly wide eyes and--

Buggering fuck.

 _No, no, no_.

Harry abruptly focuses on Eggsy’s hand in his grip.

“...The bruises seem to be on its way to fading,” Harry manages, exploring the wrist hidden by the long sleeve as he finishes securing the gauze. “It’s taking longer than it should, however. It’s almost been what, three weeks?” He hastily attempts for distraction.

“...Uhm...erm, yeah,” Eggsy croaks in reply and Harry struggles to function. He attempts to mollify himself with the fact that Eggsy would leave immediately if he truly has figured it out.

Wouldn’t he?

Unless...he’s in shock. Or in fear.

Harry abruptly releases his hold on him and turns away to take care of the medical kit.

“Uhm,” Eggsy starts, slightly shaky, and Harry is absolutely terrified. He’s right to be. “What about my mouth?”

“...What about your mouth?” Harry questions, blank, gathering the towels into one neat pile.

“Won’t you--I mean, it--it hurts, sorta. Won’t you make it better?”

Harry purses his lips and quickly pulls an antibacterial wipe out of its container, blindly handing it to Eggsy. “Done.”

“Oi,” There’s a wretched pout, Harry would bet the state of international security on it, “You’re the medical professional here. You can’t fix a split lip with all that RAMC training?”

Gritting his teeth, Harry takes a quick glance at the injury. “It’s not that serious. You’ll be fine.” He stands, carrying the dish filled with bloodstained water.

“Yeah?”

“No kissing,” He finds himself bursting out under his breath as he walks away, escaping to the kitchen.

There’s an offended scoff that follows, near irritable. “ _Obviously_.”

Next to the surprise, the waves of self-loathing are relentless. Harry has no right to manipulate things this way. None whatsoever.

Harry’s gripping the counter when he realises that Eggsy is trailing after him with the medical kit in hand. “My body hurts, I’m not bending over deep in the pantry to put this back.”

Why does everything he say sound suggestive? Has it always been like this or is this simply a side-effect from Harry’s affliction?

“Simply leave it on the counter, Eggsy. I’ll take care of it when I return.” He pours the dirty water down the drain and lets the faucet run for a few seconds before stopping. “I’m tremendously tardy as it is. It's time for us to leave.” Harry moves past him to scour through the pantry.

“What, you can't trust me to be left here now?" Eggsy goads.

Harry resurfaces with two juice-boxes and a pack of jaffa cakes and hands them all to Eggsy. “Don’t be ridiculous,” He evades, making his way back to the living room for his suit jacket. “You’ll be back.”

“...Yeah?" Eggsy challenges as they move to the foyer and start putting their shoes on.

“You promised to take on the lessons,” Harry straightens his suit and places a hand on the door handle, gripping. “You promised to be good for me, did you not?”

_Say no, say no._

“...Yeah," Eggsy breathes in admission.

Grinding his teeth, Harry opens the door. “After you.”

“How long will you be gone for?” Eggsy questions, “You gotta be back for the date and Lestrade’s party, won't you?”

As Harry locks his door, he hums, non-committal.

“Keep your phone on, yeah?” Eggsy grimaces, looking far away. “I’m not saying I’ll text or call or anything, but just in case--My mum, I mean.”

There is no promise and guarantee in Harry’s career. Only danger and the constant pursuit of it. Harry has always known. Now, there’s a desperate need to tell him, a desperate need to make him understand. There are several things Eggsy should hate him for, but Harry doesn’t wish to be hated for it when he can't answer back in time.

“Oi, Harry--”

“Yes." Harry swipes a juice-box from Eggsy's hold. “Goodbye. Stay out of trouble.” He turns away, striding on.

“Hey--Be safe, yeah?”

The words make him falter in his steps.

Harry likes to think he’s fully composed when he turns to face him. “And you, yes?”

Eggsy’s lips thin. “...Yeah, of course.”

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

** II **

 

**Incoming Call: Banana Man**

Eggsy stares down at the screen, letting the mobile go on.

Yeah, people are dying, but things like this job takes time. And honestly, he’s got things in mind he has to sift through.

What happened in Harry’s house--that was--

Shit, he doesn’t even know.

One time he thinks there’s _something_ , but then it’s gone. And yeah, Eggsy can be an arrogant piece of shit, but to actually think and believe that Harry might--That he might actually want Eggsy _that_ way…that’s just excessive. Sounds fake. It can’t possibly be true.

Why would Harry even--Don’t get him wrong, it’s everything Eggsy’s ever wanted, but--he doesn’t know. It’s odd.

At that moment, that very brief second that Eggsy dared to consider the possibility when he saw Harry glance down at his mouth--’cos _fuck_ , that happened, he swears it--he didn’t know what to do. In a way, he was stumped, and maybe frozen with terror because it’s one thing to want something but it’s different when it actually starts to become real.

Especially when there’s this whole thing with his mum and Harry.

But maybe he doesn’t have to worry about it. Again, why would Harry even be interested in him like that? What could possibly be appealing about Eggsy? All he does is cause problems and overreact. He’s just a kid that Harry feels responsible for, and Eggsy takes advantage of him when he knows he shouldn’t. He’s done so many terrible things. Harry deserves better than that, doesn’t he?

God, what was Eggsy thinking all those times he actually thought he had a chance?

Besides, so _what_ if Harry stared at his mouth? It’s not like it’s the first time. It was only for a split-second. It only seemed like forever because--well, that tends to happen when he’s with Harry, so there. Don’t people stare at each other’s mouth sometimes? You can’t just stare at one part of their face, can you? That’d be just weird.

Eggsy’s done it before, plenty of times. He didn’t want to kiss them or anything.

Suddenly, Eggsy flushes at the memory of asking Harry to treat his split lip. God. Fucking dumb arse. The shame is too strong. Eggsy just had the urge to make Harry look at his mouth again to see what would happen. Bloody idiot.

Mortified, he covers his face with his bandaged hands, groaning. He only went to Harry’s place to try and assess whether or not Harry had figured out his...thing for him. He didn’t even get a clear answer. He left more confused than he was from the beginning.

Bloody hell, why is Eggsy wasting time on this? He’s supposed to hate him. And he does, he swears it.

But he’s made his promise. To be completely honest, Eggsy doesn’t trust his own promises. Let's be real, he’s a piece of shit. He thinks Harry knows it too going from the look on his face when Eggsy argued his case. But it doesn’t mean he won’t try.

Grinding his teeth, Eggsy already has a plan.

He calls it _Operation: Kill With Kindness_.

Yeah. Harry wants him to play nice? Fuck him, that’s what. Fuck him hard.

His green mobile vibrates again and he huffs in agitation before picking up.

“ _Gary! You won’t believe what I found in the post today!_ ”

Eggsy waits to build up his feigned excitement and stares at his hand, recalling the feel of Harry tending to him. He was...gentle, but firm when he needed to be. It was [nice](http://0-q-0.tumblr.com/tagged/CH.-26). “Cav, surely you don’t expect me to guess, you don’t have all day.”

 _Eggsy_ doesn't have all day.

“ _True. But I’ll give you a hint: It’s from Australia._ ”

“Ooo,” Eggsy humours him, stalling. He wonders if Cavendish has already heard about the incident at the pitch last night. Does anyone even know? There weren’t any cameras and anyone involved should have been smart enough to keep their mouth shut. “Is it--is it part two?”

“ _Clever boy._ ”

“You really didn’t have to do that,” Eggsy protests, mind running away, dangerously considering how he can maybe confirm whether or not Harry has a _thing._ Which he probably doesn't. Just...Eggsy wants it over with. A simple yes or no conclusion.

It could be his new ‘Theory’.

_Shit._

The moment the idea strikes him, he knows he won’t be able to leave it alone. Why does he get into the worst kind of reckless situations?

“ _Gary, of course I didn’t. I thought it would simply cheer you up a bit._ ”

“Ah, you didn’t even have to get me anything at all, honestly. You’ve done enough--Wait. The post? Does that mean you’re back in the country?”

“ _Mhm. Just got back a few hours ago._ ”

“Go to sleep,” Eggsy urges, trying to get rid of him. If Cavendish hasn’t brought up what happened at Paddington Rec, he probably doesn’t know. There’s no use in talking some more, there’s nothing that can’t be pushed on to the next day or the one after that. “Don’t you get jet-lag or something?” Harry doesn’t, but Cavendish isn’t Harry. Obviously.

“ _How sweet, your mother definitely raised you well--I’ve managed to get in contact with Lucas, I think it’s time to give him a few days off. Would you be interested in tagging along?_ ”

Eggsy frowns at his bandaged hand. Damn. “Guv, I don’t think anyone would want a kid hanging around them during their once-in-a-blue-moon holiday.” He shifts on the sofa, reaching for his Nokia hidden in his sock.

 

‘ _We didn’t think this through._ ’

 

\--

 

Other than the unexpected incident this morning, Harry’s following days were meant to be Eggsy-free.

But as he exits the underground towards HQ, he frowns at his mobile.

He shouldn’t. He really shouldn’t.

 

‘ _Think what through?_ ”

 

**12\. 08. 2007 - Excalibur[II]:**

_Gauzes on my hands. Draws attention. Questions._

 

Harry purses his lips.

‘ _Stop getting into trouble. Simple._ ’

 

There is no immediate reply and Harry refuses to think any more about it, striding within the halls of HQ with purpose, briefly stopping by his office before heading straight for Arthur’s.

He has the decency to knock. The three seconds of waiting is enough to make him grind his teeth. Harry straightens his suit and keeps his head high.

“Enter.”

The permission is barely halfway announced when Harry goes in.

“Ah," Arthur’s lips curl. “Galahad, at last. I was about to send the cavalry to hunt you down.”

Harry smiles, baring his teeth. “I have a date with medical and psych, and you are a very important man, Arthur, I shan't waste your time.”

There’s a curious eyebrow raise at that. He’s clearly caught him off-guard. “Very well, Galahad. Take a seat.”

Harry remains standing.

“Regarding the long-term mission, it’s clear what the answer shall be.”

Harry knows he’s lying, but he doesn't know whether it’s to Arthur or himself. Regardless, Arthur looks pleased before giving into perceptive cautiousness. “...And yet?”

“Conditions.”

Arthur nods. “As I rightfully sensed."

“I choose when I leave. Discussions and briefings will be postponed.”

“And how long will you be stalling for?”

“The second week of September.”

“Dare I ask why?” As casual as he sounds, Arthur watches him carefully.

Harry shoots him an unamused look of derision, careless of the consequences. “I’m on my way to recovery. Also, it’s a long-term assignment. I must prepare my personal assets among other things.”

“Kingsman is well capable of taking care of that for you,” Arthur tells him in an overly assistive demeanour bordering on innocent. Harry knows the words are unnecessary. He’s always been aware of this fact, and he suspects Arthur knows that as well.

“Regardless," Harry holds his ground, enunciating, “That is my first condition. By the second week of September, I will report to you with the intention of proceeding with the assignment.”

“The ‘first’ condition," Arthur states, bemused.

“My second condition is that you clear me for missions as of today.”

Appalled, Arthur huffs. “Despite your ‘recovery’?"

“Missions fitting of my current medical limits," Harry amends, crisp in his words. “I’d like for my psychiatrist to be able to review the surveillance feeds and reports for analysis to get a sense of my recovery. Nothing that would cause Merlin great agitation, of course. The man deals with enough.”

Arthur sighs eventually. “Harry, you always cause great agitation.”

“Nothing that would cause Merlin _too much_ great agitation," Harry specifies, insolent.

They stare at each other for a very long time, but Arthur ultimately smiles, shaking his head slightly. “Very well, Galahad. Congratulations.”

 

»

 

Finally looking away from the override notice clear on his clipboard, Merlin stares at Harry, bordering on homicidal. “I don't know how you managed to pull this off.”

“I sold my soul," Harry deadpans.

Merlin scowls. “First of all, you don't have one. Second, even if you did, you’d have lost it a long time ago.”

“Mmm.” Harry tilts his head, acquiescing. “As for my mission--”

Merlin smacks the clipboard right on the freshly bandaged injuries on Harry's chest. “Here you go.”

Harry doesn't visibly react and merely transfers the information to the bigger screen on the wall.

“Galahad, this is a very simple mission--but no less important than the rest. You fuck this up, I will have your bollocks hung on the main hall.”

“North Korea always makes badly veiled threats." Harry rolls his eyes. “They mostly never amount to nothing.”

Merlin stares at him but Harry doesn't know what he’s waiting for.

“...'to nothing’," Merlin finally repeats, flat, and Harry doesn’t understand.

Until he does. He hopes he’s subtle in his grimace. “‘ _Anything_ ’," He corrects himself, “They mostly never amount to anything.”

Brows furrowed, Merlin purses his lips and moves on. “...Intel on their attempt at diplomacy. Secure transfer and oversight. Crucial. _Simple_.”

 _Boring_ , Harry doesn't say. He’ll take what he can. He needs to regain his credibility. He's fucked up enough. “Mmm.”

“I mean it. No bodies dropping. Not a single one."

“Right--If you’ll excuse me,” He begins, handing him his clipboard, “I have an appointment with psych.”

He’s almost out the door.

“Harry," Merlin calls out, quiet. There’s something about it that makes Harry turn, but Merlin averts his gaze down to his clipboard. “My son, has he...been in contact?”

Technically, Quinlan has been. But not in the last few weeks that he can recall. Harry genuinely doesn't know what to say. Their correspondence has always been meant to be a secret. Because it’s always been about Eggsy.

It's a betrayal, and it's one he feels genuinely guilty about. Harry and Merlin can definitely be considered friends in some definitions. He’s known Merlin for a very long time. Which is why he can catch the meaning of the way Merlin holds his shoulders. It's straight, professional, but definitely not relaxed as it appears to be at first glance. It’s imperceptible, the tension.

Merlin is worried and he’s not willing to admit it outright. Harry's willing to bet this conversation will be expertly wiped from the feeds as well, whether it be from their glasses or the basic surveillance in the room.

Before Harry can say anything, Merlin backtracks, waving him off. “Nevermind. It’s nothing--It’s not as if he’s always been keen on the monthly calls.”

“Have you tried... _checking in_ using...other methods?”

Merlin sends him a cutting look. “The least I can do for him is privacy. He made me promise.”

Harry can only raise an eyebrow at that.

“It was more of a baiting challenge but I took it," Merlin mutters in admission, “He’ll know if I do otherwise.”

“Would you like me to check in?" Harry offers.

Shaking his head, Merlin waves him off again. “It’s not your problem. It’s fine--But…” He trails off and clears his throat. “He’s always seemed to hate you less than he hates me--Who knows why, you’re terrible--but if it isn't too much trouble…”

“It isn't, Merlin," Harry assures him.

 

»

 

He’s putting his items in the psych locker when he sees his mobile has new messages.

The thing about fighting compulsion is that it's a work in progress. No one can get it perfect immediately. Besides, it’s been an hour and a half since he’s seen the last message. That's an admirable feat.

Harry angles the mobile to be hidden from camera views.

 

**12\. 08. 2007 - Excalibur[II]:**

_No can do, daddy-o_

 

Harry feels vaguely nauseated. He doesn't even remember what he and Eggsy were talking about.

 

**12\. 08. 2007 - Excalibur[II]:**

_On a more serious note: Shut up. When can I take it off?_

 

‘ _Take what off?_ ’

 

It's after he sends it that he realises he could have checked the previous messages. Harry is close to giving into facepalming like a fool. Before he can amend his mistake, a new text arrives.

 

**12\. 08. 2007 - Excalibur[II]:**

_What do you think, Harry? Do you really think I need your permission to take off my own clothes?_

 

Struck by an incredible amount of panic, he shoves his mobile deep into the locker and makes his way to check-in at the front desk before taking a seat. Because frankly, a deep terrible part of him wants to prove Eggsy wrong. A lecherous part of him wants--

It’s a split-second of mutiny from his own mind. Uncontrollable and irreversible. A scene where Eggsy huffs in that impatient petulant way of his, but wonderfully obedient, waiting for Harry to give him permission to take off his own clothes.

_Jesus fucking christ._

“Ah, Galahad--”

Harry immediately stands and beats Morgause to her own office. Sitting down, he grips at the armrests before trying to relax.

Across from him, Morgause watches on, mildly amused. “How was the last two weeks, Galahad? Productive? Any progress on your ‘issues’ since our last session?”

It’s instinctive how he glances at the large windows.

Morgause chuckles. “That’s bulletproof, Galahad. You can’t simply escape by jumping out of it.”

Scowling, Harry complains, “Isn’t that a fire hazard?”

“Well, you’d have to turn the handles in their proper sequences, but going from your impatient desperation, you’d simply attempt to go straight through it.”

Her insight is irritating, no matter how accurate.

“How was your holiday, Morgause?" He asks instead, polite.

She humours his stalling. “Quite nice. No responsibilities, got a light tan. Fardad the pool boy has a skilled tongue, truly a pity you missed out.”

Harry grimaces. “That’s nice.”

“And you? You changed your mind the last second. What stopped you? You still seemed stressed. Any sex?”

“Why? Are you offering?” He snipes.

“If you’d like.”

Grinding his teeth, he genuinely thinks about it. Maybe he simply needs release, maybe afterwards Eggsy won’t seem so...appealing anymore. Maybe his mind is simply desperate, the way hungry people consider cannibalism after a while. Harry's lips thin. “I have a mission in three hours. No, thank you.”

Morgause laughs. “Oh, Galahad, to think you could last even a few minutes with the way you are now--Three hours is inconsequential.”

He narrows his eyes. That sounds like a challenge. He’s always taken great pleasure proving people wrong in their haughty assumptions. “Morgause, you’re baiting me," He warns, “That’s childish.”

“Speaking of childish,” She smirks, “Would you like to know how Andrew Denbigh is in bed?"

Harry freezes. His face curls with disgust. “He’s a child.”

The moment it leaves his mouth, the irony of it all dawns on him, nauseating. He swallows. “Fairly unethical.”

“Remember what you do for a living,” Morgause tuts.

“That’s _different_. We do what we do for a larger purpose.”

“Debatable--You know, there’s something really enjoyable about conversing with you.” Morgause raises an eyebrow. “He’s twenty-one. It was consensual.”

The disgust doesn't leave him but he attempts to control himself, sitting up and settling with a blank expression. “What you do with your life is your business, but remember that compared to you and despite his brilliance, he’s a low-level employee--there are power dynamics along with the age gap that gives you far more advantage and experience in regards to skill, physicality, mentality, social grace and situations.”

She observes him carefully, pulling out her writing pad and setting it on her lap. “You were thirty-eight. I was twenty-three, twenty-four. We have a fourteen year difference. Mordred and myself have twelve. Is this a double standard?”

Harry doesn't know what to do with that information. Kingsman fraternisation rules aren’t up to date the way that they should be. That’s the problem of having a bigot in charge. There aren’t enough women in the organisation to warrant serious revision in Arthur’s point of view, and the man also likes to believe there aren't any buggery going on outside of what missions require. If denial isn't enough, Arthur finds a way to simply get rid of them. Harry purses his lips and tries to save face. “Arthur is bound to find out. Can you protect the boy from harm? Will you even bother?”

Morgause rolls her eyes. “You’re being overly dramatic--”

“No," Harry holds his ground. “This is reality. There will be consequences. Is it worth it to ruin his prospects? Just for an orgasm?”

“Well, it wasn't _only_ for an orgasm," She tells him casually, writing on paper without looking. “You know me. Human behaviour--I was simply curious about him, how he would react, difficulty level and all that--You should try him. He has very cute reactions. Very sensitive.”

“No, thank you," Harry politely declines, steely. “Moving on. Merlin will be sending you transmission feeds from my next few missions for analysis.”

“Ah, business at last. I’m very excited to hear that. What is your preferred outcome?”

“Does it matter?”

“Do you want the truth or the one Arthur wants to see?”

It’s tempting. He could use this to derail the long-term mission. “Would you bend the rules and lie on your report? Fraternisation aside, when it actually comes to your duties, it is very unlike you to compromise on integrity.”

“You’re not well, Galahad," Morgause tells him outright. “ _Psychology_ aside, I’ve seen your recent medical file. You need time. I’m a doctor. My patients’ wellness is the priority--despite what Arthur thinks. I can’t simply wave a wand over you and fix everything just to send you back out there to suffer, fuck up and die.”

Harry doesn't know what to say. “...I’m a good agent.”

“Yes. Yes, you are. One of the best." The way she says it, it’s not patronising or mollifying. It’s factual. “But as I said. You’re not well. You must take care of yourself. Whatever is causing you harm, it needs to be taken care of.”

Harry stares at the carpet, hating his own honest vulnerability. “...What if what's causing me harm is here? If I stay--Would leaving be running away or the solution?”

At the silence, he finally looks at her. Morgause is clearly in deep thought. “I’d ask you to be more specific, but I know you won't be.”

His jaw clenches and he averts his gaze. How can anyone possibly admit they’re attracted to a child? Wouldn’t she surrender him to the authorities? Harry would. The doctor-patient confidentiality is nothing when it comes to something like this.

Perhaps that would be for the better, but he can't support Eggsy that way. Not from behind bars or rotting away in a mental asylum, useless.

“Galahad, I can't give you a clear answer, not without more details. Thus, it is for you to decide.”

He hums, non-committal.

Morgause continues, “It seems so simple sometimes, the instinctive almost-basic animal survival: Whatever is hurting you, run far away from it.” She closes her writing pad. “But the human mind is complex. It’s not so easy. There are many factors at play.”

Harry entertains the idea. But things should be different now. Eggsy--Eggsy promised to be good. To play nice. Granted, he’s a teenager and his words shouldn't be trusted with his arbitrary mood changes, but--Harry's willing to try. And despite his recent revelation, he will be keeping his distance. He’ll get back to his Kingsman routine. Slowly but surely.

The attraction will fade, won't it? With time? With effort? With plentiful distractions?

It’s--

“Galahad.”

“Yes?”

“Any other matters to speak of?”

He shakes his head prematurely, but the word leaves his mouth. “Scars.”

“...What about them?”

“They’re...not meant to feel anything.” It’s not exactly a question. Harry would know, he has quite a few scars on his body. Most of them are numb.

“Some, yes. It’s common. It usually depends on how deep the wounds are and the nerves that were severed during its infliction. Why?”

“It’s…” Harry’s mouth goes dry at the recollection of Eggsy’s fingertips brushing against his left wrist. “What if it feels...what if it evokes a sensation?”

Morgause squints. “We’re talking about the particular sensation here, I gather.”

He can only clear his throat, regretting his decision to talk about it when she keeps on going.

“What is it? Arousal? Heat? Pain?”

“Electricity," Harry finds himself saying. “Shock. Heat. Warmth."

But only if Eggsy touches it. Harry's touched it plenty of times. It's a mindless habit. Sometimes warm and comforting. But nothing like--Harry huffs. Eggsy’s only touched it once. It could be pure coincidence. It’s not like anyone else has.

“Could be psychosomatic," Morgause supplies.

Harry nods for show. “Hmm.”

 

\--

 

Eggsy frowns at his Nokia.

Shit. Did he scare him off? Was that too much? It’s been like...an hour. Though the last time Harry responded, it took an hour and forty-one minutes. Not that he was counting. He just happened to look at the time. That’s all.

His finger taps at the chrome screen, absentmindedly practicing his Morse-code antics. It doesn’t take long for him to fuck up and get worked up about it.

Tsk. A fucking hour. What the hell--

_Well, duh. He’s at work, you fucking idiot. His world doesn’t revolve around you. Cool down._

True.

Sucking on his juice-box, he looks at the gauzes on his hands instead. With all the blood cleaned off, the injuries won’t look so bad if he takes off the gauzes. It would only be a few cuts and early stages of bruises.

Still, Cavendish or Wiltshire would probably ask questions either way. Eggsy huffs, opening the secret compartment on his bracelet and picking up the tiny round metal thing that Holmes had given him. There’s only one left. One more and he’s done. Probably. It would be suspicious of him to cut off all contact after that. He’d need to hang around or something unless he has a really good believable excuse.

How the hell could he worm his way in Cavendish’s home? There’s no use taking up modeling, that would only limit him to the studio probably. He’s thought about faking injury before, but he realises now that could lead him to the hospital. He’d have to wing it. Maybe he should do both and see what happens.

Eggsy retreats to his room to think about it more comfortably. He checks his other mobiles for any notifications too ‘cos responsibilities.

 

**12\. 08. 2007 - Yve:**

_Won’t be back til wed. What’s your address? I need to send you costumes to try out._

 

Damn. Other than a very few handful, he doesn’t like it when people know where he lives. They could visit. And Yvonne’s rich and stuff, so no. That’s not an option. He’s not mentally prepared for it yet. Plus, she might come over when his mum is around. Disaster.

 

‘ _Send it to Ryan. He’ll give it to me._ ’

 

Shit. _Ryan_. The fuck. Eggsy’s the worst friend of all time.

“... _Hello?_ ”

“Mate! Are you alright?” He hopes Ryan doesn’t hate him now too. Jesus. He doesn’t have much people left.

“ _Oi, I should be asking that! That was wild. I’m---shit. I’m still scared. I’m lookin’ out my curtains._ ”

“Wankenstein won’t find you,” Eggsy tries to assure him. “Or his friend.”

“ _I ain’t talkin’ about them. Jesus. Lord. Did you know I went to church today? S’that enough to save me, d’you think?_ ”

“Save you from what?”

“ _That Mr. Hart of yours--Jesus, where’s my mum’s rosary? I swear it was just here--_ ”

Eggsy rolls his eyes, huffing. “Oi, I’m serious--Are you okay? I know I fucked up but--Look, I’m sorry,” He mumbles, grimacing.

“ _Yeah, mate. S’fine. Jesus. I knew that was gonna happen. I shoulda dragged you away, but you were stubborn and Jamal wasn’t there, so of course I had to stay. Until the end, that is. I can’t believe I just left you like that, but man! That Mr. Hart, I swear to mother Mary--Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee--_ ”

“Oi, are you seriously praying right now?” Eggsy gawks, “You don’t believe in that shite. Are you high?”

“ _Shh. It’s time to pray for my sins--But you, though? How are you alive?_ ”

“What do you mean? Of course I’m alive,” He sniffs, “Frankly offended that you think I’d lose.”

“ _Oi, I’m talking about Mr. H--Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners, now and the hour of our death. Amen._ ”

“Amen,” Eggsy humours him, frowning. Because yeah, Ryan’s high. He can tell. He’s got that slightly slurred way of speaking. Barely noticeable because he talks so fast, but it’s there. “What about Mr. Hart?”

Ryan suddenly hisses another round of Hail Marys, blazing fast.

Eggsy rolls his eyes. He’ll call back when the high’s worn off.

“Goodluck, mate.”

 

\--

 

Finally entering his office, Harry sighs and takes a brandy glass from the tray before sitting down. He reaches under his desk, opening the mini fridge for some ice and the juice-box. Unfolding the flaps, he tears it open and pours the contents over the ice in the glass. He has time before his briefing, he might as well pre-fill some paperwork in wait.

Barely five minutes in and he remembers that he didn’t reply at all. He gives into checking mobile. Just in case of emergencies.

 

**12\. 08. 2007 - Excalibur[II]:**

_The gauzes, Harry, the gauzes. Will you know if I take it off?_

 

Harry narrows his eyes. Suspicious, very suspicious. What could be more important than healing that Eggsy wants to undo all the effort that's been made?

 

**12\. 08. 2007 - Excalibur[II]:**

_I mean, my mum will be asking questions if she sees. What do??_

**12\. 08. 2007 - Excalibur[II]:**

_If i take it off, will you know? Even if i put it back on? Will there be punishment?_

 

Why does he talk like this? Worrying about punishment implies he’s willing to consider the prospect of suffering, implies that he’ll _allow_ himself to do so, implies that Harry has any power over him that Eggsy would willfully bow under. Which is absurd. From an outsider's perspective, yes, Harry would seem to have it. But they clearly don't know Eggsy and his petulant ways. Harry's words only matter if Eggsy cares enough to take it seriously.

 

_‘One, yes--I will know. Even if you put it back on. Two, I won't be instructing you on how to lie to your mother. Three, punishment? Perhaps.’_

 

He genuinely intends to leave it at that and returns to his paperwork.

And yet.

 

**12\. 08. 2007 - Excalibur[II]:**

_What kind of punishment?_

 

Harry stares at the ceiling, pondering what to say, one hand on his mobile, the other around his glass of apple juice. For some reason, he feels like sweating. He sips at his drink carefully.

He chokes when Merlin suddenly bursts through his door, and he hastily hides his mobile.

Merlin stops, eyeing his drink. “Liquor in the early afternoon," He states flatly.

“No, it’s--” Harry clears his throat, remembering the idea of regaining his dignity. “Well. Just a few sips.”

“Please don't tell me you’re an alcoholic.”

“No.”

As much as he feels like it's a lie, it isn't. Harry does his best not to drink anymore. Not that he was making a habit of it in the first place. Granted, he fails every now and then due to...certain issues, but generally it's clear that Eggsy doesn't like it when he drinks. He doesn’t know why, it’s not as if he's different after a glass and a half, which is his limit for non-Kingsman related drinking with other people. Admittedly, that is rare, but it’s the same limit he subjected himself with when Eggsy used to come over--and that's if he _had_ to drink. Being in this line of work calls for a high tolerance as well. He wouldn’t be greatly affected after only a few glasses.

Besides, there's an abundance of juice-boxes in his pantry. Priorities.

“Moving on," Merlin continues, “There’s been a change. North Korean mission has been postponed. There’s a more pressing issue in Edinburgh. There’s been murmurs of activities all over Scotland, but this time there's an actual lead. It might be another Glasgow incident. Can you handle it?”

Harry raises an eyebrow. “Might bodies drop?”

Merlin’s mouth thins. “Cleanly. If they must.”

Harry throws back his apple juice. “When?”

“Right away. You need to get to Heathrow. Mordred will brief you on the way.”

 

»

 

Harry was under the impression that it would be an audio briefing through the comms. Mordred actually tags along with him to the airport.

“...And the objective would be to eliminate and or sabotage any threat, hopefully figure out the source of the signal as well, but--”

“Are you briefing everyone on this floor?" Harry mildly murmurs to his newspaper.

“What?" Mordred stops in his rambling.

Sighing, Harry removes his glasses and powers it off before putting it in his inner suit pocket.

Mordred stares. “What are you doing?”

“Settle. You’re too obvious." He turns to Mordred who’s seated next to him. “Is this your first time out?”

“Erm…” His eyes flicker all over the place and Harry has the urge to facepalm.

Instead, he reaches over to adjust the scarf on his neck. “This again. I thought the bruises were gone?”

Mordred fidgets, starting to look rather flushed. “Erm…”

“Ah. Was she too rough on you?”

Mordred’s eyes go wide. “Oh my god--how--" There's a quiet noise of despair before he hastily explains in a low volume, “I knew we shouldn't have. I didn't mean to, but--It was late and I haven't had sleep and she came back with biscuits and she said--and then I was all ‘ha-ha right’ awkward laughter because I didn't think she was serious but then--”

Harry tugs lightly at Mordred’s ear.

“Ow--” His eyes are somehow watery and Harry isn’t meant for this shenanigans.

“You’re twenty-one. I cannot tell you what and what you shouldn't do outside work matters. You make your own choices. You were designated Mordred due to your high proficiency and dedication above all others in your group. Remember that. Know your value and significance. Decide if what you're doing is worth risking that.”

“...But--" He whispers quietly, “--It was good. Like...really, _really_ good.” Mordred stares at him, lip wobbling, and Harry hates everything. Especially when Mordred abruptly hides his face against Harry's shoulder.

“For hell’s sake--Yes. I know.” Why does Harry even bother? He awkwardly pets at his head for the sake of the people giving them weird looks. “Do whatever you want, Mordred.”

“No, but--good pep talk though, sir," Mordred sniffs. “Very impressive. You’d be a great dad.”

Harry grimaces. “That’s it, I’m leaving.”

“But your flight isn't on for forty-five minutes--”

 

\--

 

Eggsy narrows his eyes in suspicion at all his mobiles laid out on the bedside table.

But he doesn't have time to obsess about it, he has to go to work at the bookshop.

When it comes to his injuries, it’s difficult to make a believable excuse to Max and Clara, so he just tells them the truth because there really isn't much of a consequence with them. He just has to look like a sad regretful sod and they feel bad for him already.

He hates how easily he does it.

Eggsy knows it’s fucked up--that _he’s_ fucked up. Which is why even in some weird alternate universe that Harry _does_ feel the same way, he wouldn’t feel that way for long. Because once he really gets to know Eggsy, he wouldn’t want him anymore.

Who would? Who would want someone moody and changeable? Who would want someone who’s occasionally prone to violence and manipulation? Who would want someone who acts like he’s hot shit because he knows he’s ain't _worth_ shit?

Ah, but--What if it’s just sex?

Would it matter then?

It wouldn’t, would it?

Eggsy grinds his teeth, trying to get rid of the bitter taste in his mouth.

It’s not like that. Harry has better standards in that too, most definitely.

But if he didn’t, Eggsy would probably take advantage that situation as well. There’s no use lying to himself about it.

 

\--»

 

Harry doesn't know how much Merlin knows. But five hours in, the mission takes him far out the green outskirts of Edinburgh and he makes a discovery that leaves him cold.

It was only a flash, a glimpse of a profile from a hundred yards away. Unfortunately, his instincts insist that his initial assessment is true.

With most criminal organisations, there’s a chain of command and there’s the disposable low-level thugs. Often, they’re not too clever, meant for busy work, scapegoating and bullet padding.

Which makes him dubious to what he’s just seen, because there’s a good chance he’s just spotted Quinlan among the lot of them in the warehouse complex. The other thing that leaves him in doubt was the hair. The large mop of mess was gone and only a closely shaved buzz-cut remained. The clothes were different as well.

Harry genuinely hopes he is mistaken.

Either way, he takes his glasses off and only puts it back on when he’s on the transport back into the city centre to chase down other leads. He needs more information.

The warehouse complex will still be there by the time he needs to make a decision.

 

\--»

 

When Eggsy wakes the next day, there are messages waiting for him.

He goes in left-to-right order, picking up the green mobile first.

 

**12\. 08. 2007 - Banana Man:**

_Have you ever been to Buckingham Palace? I think it’s a pity that some citizens haven't even been to the places that tourists flock to._

 

That’s deep. Really, it is.

Eggsy moves on to the next mobile.

 

**12\. 08. 2007 - Hazly Wobbles:**

_On the plane. Might be busy for the next few days._

 

Alright.

That's fine.

Figures.

There’s no other messages, so he goes back to the green mobile.

 

‘ _That's deep. Why, u offerin to take me? Lol,’_ Eggsy types with a blank expression.

 

His whole body is still sore, but he gets into the routine of slow and steady gymnastic stretches before going out for a light walk. When he returns home, his mum is finishing up breakfast. He immediately shoves his hands into his pockets. “Ah. G’morning.”

She stares at him.

Shit. He should have looked at the mirror. He doesn't know if he’s bruising on the face or not. He was hit pretty hard on the face once, so yeah, probably, but he doesn’t know whether or not it’s showing yet.

“What’s with the lip and the face?" She questions.

“Kissing," Eggsy blurts, remembering Harry. “Too eager. Face smushed. Teeth clashed. Very embarrassing.” He looks down, grimacing, and scratches the back of his head for show.

After a few seconds of staring, his mum starts laughing, and it's such a great sound. He doesn’t even mind the shame.

“I remember those days," She snorts. “Wild.”

“Oi, I don't wanna know.”

She rolls her eyes. “Hey, I know you ain't a girl or anything but I’m gonna ask anyway--just once--d’you maybe want to tag along dress hunting?”

He feels himself freeze, and she hastily backtracks, “Nothing expensive or anything. Maybe the charity shops. You’ve been out and about more than I have. I don't know which ones have the good stuff anymore.”

“Ah…” He swallows. The reality of the situation dawns on him and he feels himself becoming grounded, unlike his wild ideas from yesterday. “Well, erm. I can just tell you? I’m pretty busy--but hey! I’ll call Anna.”

“Nah," She waves him off, “She’s busy.”

“How would you know?”

“Everyone’s busy with their lives. She was nice to take us in and all that before, but we’ve bothered her enough.”

“Oi, she’s your friend. You haven’t talked in a while. It won't be a bother. Go have fun! A ladies night or something.”

“I have work, it’s okay.” She moves to the sink and washes up. He frowns at her, frustrated but mostly sad.

“When do you plan on going? Dress shopping, I mean.”

“Hmm. One of these days, after work, when I don't do overtime. Dinner with Hart is on Friday, and Lestrade’s anniversary party is on Sunday.”

Eggsy’s mouth thins, but thankfully she has her back turned. “How about I check through some places while you're at work?”

“Really?” She wipes her hand clean and turns to face him. “You’d do that?”

“Of course. You have like...three, four days until your date. Gotta help you out.” He gives her a close-mouthed smile. It doesn’t lessen the sting of his injury.

His mum makes his way towards him, messing up his hair before going for a hug. “You’re too good, Eggsy.”

He feels the way she melts against him and he grabs at the back of her shirt, hiding his face against her shoulder. “Nah, mum. Who else do we have but each other?”

Later, he finds himself texting Harry.

 

‘ _Oi u piece of shit, she’s going dress shopping for ur fancy dinner is2g u better appreciate_ ’

 

It’s not that he doesn't believe Harry. He sounded very sincere. Eggsy _wants_ to believe him, but…getting your hopes up only leads to devastation when shit goes inevitably wrong. Growing up the way he did, Eggsy has to be prepared for the worst.

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

** III **

 

Granted, Harry should have waited for sunset before he returned to the warehouse complex. As it is, it’s only eight in the evening. However, the additional intelligence he’s acquired for the last twenty-four hours calls for a decision.The upside to a city-wide event like the Edinburgh Fringe Festival is that people get used to the noise and the screaming. Thus, Harry knows one thing for certain from the wake of broken fingered amnesiacs:

This involves weapons trading and cyberterrorism.

Usually, it would be fine, he’s tackled worse in a solo mission.

But Morgause was right. Harry’s not entirely well. This mission seems to be revealing itself to be on a much grander scale the more he goes on. It says something that he considers calling for reinforcements.

And yet, he doesn’t.

Despite managing to sneak in and take down a whole lot of people unnoticed, he eventually gets spotted by a foolish young man in a grey hoodie, and Harry chooses to get caught.

That's always interesting.

He doesn’t even get thoroughly patted down, leaving the guns under his suit unnoticed. The young man prods a gun on his back, leading him through the halls and into a dilapidated large room with uneven lighting. Harry is tied to a chair and dragged to the centre. Far to the front is a coffee table full of litter and bottles of beer. Behind it is a tattered sofa, back against the wall. In the right corner near one of the entryways is a large cheap desk, full of wires, laptops and servers. Half a dozen people are heavily concentrated on minding their business, typing away with oversized headphones on.

However, one of them glances up towards Harry and the young man who is threateningly tapping a gun on his neck. The girl frowns, adjusting her headphones. “If you’re gonna try torture, do it somewhere else, we’re working here.”

Harry contains his huff of amusement, but the young man is clearly torn between shame and irritation. “Oi, the last time I checked, there’s at least nine of us knocked out around the complex. I caught this bloke here messin’ about. I need to know stuff.”

“I get that--but can you...please be dramatic somewhere else?”

The young man puffs his chest up in defence, ready to spout arguments no doubt--but as entertaining as it all is, Harry hears footsteps.

Sure enough, from the left entryway, Quinlan casually comes striding through, seemingly oblivious.

Harry keeps his expression mild as he takes in the sight of him.

In a black Adidas zip-hoodie that something Eggsy would wear, Quinlan is taller than Harry remembers. He wouldn’t use the word ‘gangly’ per se; there’s something hardened about him-- _precise_ \--that reminds Harry of that boy he was tracking down for weeks on the streets all those years ago. Hunting down runaway children was hardly in his job description, but it was a favour for Merlin. It had taken longer than intended to find him--because like most adults, he had made the grave mistake of underestimating a child. When Harry had finally caught up to him face to face, there was something unsettling about his eyes.

It’s the same situation he finds himself in when Quinlan casually glances at his direction before gracefully slowing in his steps.

His expression isn’t exactly blank and his eyes aren’t dead, but it’s [unreadable](http://i.imgur.com/SbIMr27.jpg). Harry is aware that his perception of time is distorted. It can’t have been more than three seconds of eye-contact, but it feels longer.

Quinlan’s gaze mildly cuts away to the young man holding the gun. “This is not the man I was referring to.”

He’s speaking in that way he does, soft and controlled, meaning he’s mostly composed. He’s grown into it, Harry realises. It’s a kind of intonation that Harry feels is supposed to make one feel at ease. Yet, if anything, he sounds displeased.

Harry works to keep his expression neutral. He notices the dark leather gloves as well.

“For fuck’s sake, it’s an older man in a suit, same thing!” The reply comes, frustrated.

“Darren,” Quinlan says calmly with something like caring reproach. “Where is he?”

“S’upstairs. Conked out, locked in one of them rooms--”

“Is he sedated like I...suggested?”

Harry feels a chill run up his spine. It’s a fortuitous thing that he left his glasses somewhere outside, wrapped in a handkerchief and buried in soil. Merlin would be devastated. This would ruin him, not only with Kingsman, but genuinely to the core. Years of therapy couldn’t undo this.

Darren huffs. “Yeah, like...seven hours ago--”

Quinlan already has his eyes closed with something like defeated resignation before he covers his face with a gloved hand. “...Seven hours? Nothing since then?”

“What’s with you and knocking people out?” The ribbing has no effect on Quinlan who is seemingly holding on in a state of quiet distress. “Relax, he’s practically been comatose since you took care of him.”

Harry desperately waits for any further information that will settle the doubts. Before Quinlan can speak however, the girl from the table catches their attention. “Psst--Can you lot take this somewhere else?”

Quinlan takes a deep breath, raising a mollifying hand at Darren who is clearly about to spit out a reply. He briefly looks at Harry once more before stepping back near the table. “I’m afraid we all need to take this somewhere else, Jean.”

“What?”

“You need to leave.” Quinlan throws a couple of pencils at the other concentrated people on their computers. “Stop everything. _Now_.”

The confused protests go on and Harry doesn’t know what to do. He has a job. That takes priority. It _should_. But that means dealing with Quinlan in a way that might be just permanent.

Almost as if he senses the danger, Darren whips his head around, keen eyes on Harry, waving the gun in his hand carelessly in warning. In Harry’s assessment, he could easily be taken down, but there’s something unstable about him that makes him a threat.

A bigger man suddenly comes striding through the entryway, demanding, “What the hell is going on here?” 

Despite his shirtlessness and the large fur-coat he’s wearing, it is clear from the way mostly everyone hunches their shoulders and averts their eyes that he’s higher in the chain of command than the rest of them. Or perhaps it’s simply the shotgun in his right hand.

The man abruptly double-takes at Harry.

“What the fuck is this?” He spits at Darren, “I thought you were told to take care of it?”

Darren averts his gaze, hands shaking. “I just thought it’d be better to ask him who he works for and stuff, Boss--”

In the background, Quinlan urges the rest of the people to quietly move out of the room. Most of them are hesitant, but some follow to do so. There’s a few left when the man in the fur-coat turns to them, angry and dangerous.

One of the computer boffins freezes and looks at Quinlan. Fur-coat raises the shotgun in emphasis and the boffin blurts out, “Danny wanted us to stop for some reason.”

 _Well, at least he’s clever enough to use a false name_ , Harry thinks as he subtly works on the ropes tied around his wrists behind the chair. He picks up speed when the man saunters towards Quinlan, raising a threatening finger at him.

“You were the one who wanted to work for me,” He slowly says, steel in his voice, ready to erupt at any second. “What the fuck do you think you’re playing at?”

Quinlan stares down at the finger on his chest, and Harry doesn’t know if the [expression](http://i.imgur.com/KIQjFdc.jpg) on his face is well-hidden fear or well-hidden indignation. He’s more concerned about Darren’s worsening state in the background, shaking hand still gripped around the gun.

There’s a quiet tension all around.

Suddenly, there’s a loud crashing noise echoing out from a floor above, startling mostly everyone, even Harry.

Quinlan only closes his eyes. “ _That’s_ what I’m ‘playing’ at.”

Fur-coat focuses back to Quinlan immediately, harshly demanding, “What the fuck is that?”

“Trouble,” Quinlan mutters with something like absolute displeasure. On cue, gunshots follow, each one sounding closer and closer. “It’s time to leave.”

At that, the man checks his shotgun and marches his way out, but not before sending Darren a glare and barking out orders, “Take care of that wanker in the suit or it’ll be a bullet in you!”

Harry is ready for action, ready to avoid Darren’s aim and tackle Quinlan down the first chance he gets--but when Darren’s shaky hand raises, Quinlan steps to block the way, holding a gentle hand out. “I’ve got it.”

“But--”

Somehow, Quinlan manages to take the gun away and moves to the table to scribble something. He hands a small paper to Darren, looking at him meaningfully. “Remember what I said?”

Darren swallows, eyes flickering back to Harry.

Quinlan follows his gaze briefly. “Don’t mind him, he’ll be taken care of-- _Do you remember_?” He urges more firmly.

Darren nods, almost frantic.

With the chaos unfolding around them, Harry is getting very impatient.

“Darren-- _Go_.” Quinlan orders.

“But--You’ll be coming with, yeah?” There’s a nervousness there that suddenly strikes Harry with a realisation: The young man reminds him of _Eggsy_ and _\--_ This is no time to have a crisis but the idea is certainly paralysing. Can Harry even shoot him?

_Preposterous, of course I can._

“Darren, for hell’s sake--Go and never look back,” Quinlan’s hand is firmly on his shoulder before pushing him back. “Use the exit on the north-west--” Quinlan abruptly gets pulled in for a hug and he’s muttering something that Harry can’t hear.

Darren lets him go to make a run for it and Quinlan immediately works on one of the laptops, typing fast. Harry finally stands.

Quinlan prevents anything he has to say. “Don’t even think about it. We’ll talk later, I need to get this done--”

“You don’t have that luxury,” Harry tells him. Quinlan finishes up and reaches over to pull the wires in a mad frenzy. Bullets go through the wall and Harry grits his teeth. “We need to leave.”

“Obviously.” Quinlan grabs the gun on the table and blindly holds it out to him. Harry blinks. Quinlan snaps, impatient, “I’m sure as hell not going to use it.”

Harry is left to follow Quinlan’s hasty exit away from the madness, and they almost make their way out before they encounter a group of armed lackeys, clearly confused about the fight and the sight of him.

“Karl needs reinforcement," Quinlan suddenly announces, gesturing to where they’ve just escaped from. “He only has a shotgun, he’ll run out of ammo soon.”

Most of them go to follow right away, but some hesitate at the sounds of violence catching up. Quinlan pushes Harry on, but they somehow they go upstairs into a small shoddy room instead of out of the building.

“What are you--”

Quinlan quickly ransacks the small space and curses when he comes up with nothing. “Damn it. It’s not here.”

Before Harry can ask again, Quinlan makes his way out, genuinely agitated. He’s going the opposite way from where they came, headed towards the side of the building where the violence had erupted in the first place. It isn’t until they're going down the stairs that Harry considers the possibility that Quinlan actually intends to _follow_ the fight.

Harry hisses. “Tell me one good reason why I shouldn't dart you and carry you out of this building.”

“International security," Quinlan mutters and it takes a moment longer for the words to dawn on Harry. _Bloody hell_ , the boy sounds like his father. Truly a downside to leaving Harry's glasses out of action. This moment would have been a good bonding point for therapy sessions. It isn't the first time Harry has considered forcing Merlin and Quinlan into one.

Either way, Harry prepares his watch. “If you get injured, your father will kill me.”

“Bollocks. Even if that were true, that's hardly what you're worried about," Quinlan manages to be petulant in his avid disbelief despite it all, even as they pass through a maze of rooms to catch up to the sounds of violence. “It’s not as if Excalibur knows--he’ll hardly blame you.”

Harry almost walks into a metal barrel full of explosives. _Shit_.

“That’s it, I’m taking you out of here." He raises his left arm to aim, but a familiar figure in the room further on makes him falter for a split second.

That's all it takes for Quinlan to call out to the man in the fur-coat who has his shotgun aimed at a distracted _James Bond_ of all people. “Karl!”

The man is briefly interrupted, only managing to turn his head slightly before Quinlan jumps on his back trying to wrestle the shotgun away from behind.

 _For fuck’s sake_. At this point, Harry genuinely doubts reality. He can't shoot a dart because the ongoing struggle makes the target unpredictable, so he uses the gun to take down people who are switching their focus to Quinlan.

Quinlan gets thrown to a massive box, toppling it and getting drowned with packing peanuts before falling to the floor. Harry would laugh, but he presses his lips together and takes the chance to shoot the man in the fur-coat instead.

Unbelievable fast, Quinlan is scrambling, near crawling towards the shotgun. One knee on the ground, he seemingly aims for Bond.

Harry is paralysed with shock and indecision. From this distance, the only way he could stop him is to shoot him, and Harry can’t--

Quinlan pulls the trigger--And many things happen at once. He gets propelled back by the force of it, dropping the shotgun to the floor. The bullet seems to make the lackey behind Bond flinch and yelp, delaying the stabbing he was about to deliver. It alerts Bond and gives him more time to deal with the man in front of him.

Sitting up, Quinlan takes in the scene and breathes out in what seems to be shuddering relief. “I missed--I _missed_ \-- _Dieu merci_ ," The babbles go on and Harry struggles to understand the situation, shooting at the people aiming for Quinlan. In the back of his mind, he knows that Quinlan shouldn’t be witness to such violence. It's bound to be another thing he'll be guilty about.

Especially when Bond ultimately deals with the man armed with the knife, brutally using the man’s own weapon against him--Quinlan stops in his grateful ramblings and grits his teeth in absolute disgust, seemingly finding the will to get up and make his way across the room.

Harry curses.

Bond quickly evades another attack from someone else and makes a grab for what appears to be a thick grey laptop set on a stack of boxes. The machine is large and hefty looking, which must be why he uses it to hit a man across the face. Hard.

“Goddammit," Quinlan hisses, raising his right hand to aim.

With the shotgun left on the floor far away, Harry doesn't know what the hell he's doing at first until he focuses on the black sports watch on Quinlan’s right wrist.

_No. It can't be._

Quinlan blindly presses a button and adjusts his aim as Bond nears the entryway to the next room.

Harry sets the gun down and adjusts his own watch but he doesn’t know who to aim for.

Loud and clear, Quinlan calls out, “Stop.”

Back turned, Bond halts, holding the laptop against his chest. His other hand grips the gun before he suddenly whips around to aim at Quinlan.

Just as quick, Harry aims for Bond. “Don’t.”

With blood running down his temple, Bond stares at Quinlan, unreadable. His mouth parts as if he’s going to speak but his head slightly tilts and his eyes narrow a fraction. He seems to be having trouble with something.

“...Who are you?”

“...Put it down," Quinlan orders.

“Bond," Harry warns.

“Hart," Bond acknowledges, eyes still on Quinlan, the gun in his hand steady. “Who is this?”

“Merely a boy," Harry replies. It doesn’t matter how convincing he is. Quinlan's tall and unrelenting form gives the lie away. Harry sighs and tries again. “Honorary nephew," He relents, sounding mildly resigned and piqued about it, “So please don't put a hole in him. I will be in a world of trouble. I will never see the light of day.”

He could never face Eggsy again.

Harry’s heart pounds, heavy.

Bond doesn't relent, staring at Quinlan harder.

Before Harry can even make another attempt, Quinlan speaks again, the steel in his tone laced with creeping exhaustion, “Bond, place the laptop on the floor.”

Bond’s brows furrow, and frankly, the fact that he hasn't even pulled the trigger is miraculous in and of itself. It’s been at least ten seconds. Harry didn’t even know the man was capable of going past three. As impressive as it all is, he can't let his guard down.

“Bond," Harry warns for the last time. There has got to be more armed subordinates within this complex altogether. They will have had heard of the turmoil and are possibly on their way to investigate.

In the tense silence, Quinlan’s long and shaky exhale seems tired and vulnerable.

Bond's stone cold expression flickers with something that Harry can only describe as _disconcertion_ before he takes a cautious step back. Quinlan's arm trembles, and Harry is genuinely surprised he’s held it out for this long. In his assessment, Quinlan will have to let him go. If he’s as smart and clever as he truly is, then he’d know that Bond is an agent of some sort, a trained operative with a wide variety of skillsets. He should be aware of his chances and how fast Bond can pull the trigger.

Harry is truly tempted to set his own arm down, but he refuses to do so unless the threat has passed. As it is, Bond shouldn't shoot as long as Quinlan surrenders. With the way Quinlan’s arm shakes some more and how Bond takes another step back, that seems to be the end scenario.

Except--

“ _James_ ," Quinlan hisses through his teeth with a hint of desperation.

Bond freezes.

Harry has a late realisation: Quinlan has already shot him with a dart. He didn't miss this time. The tiny metallic end sticks out low on Bond's neck.

 _Shit_ \--Harry makes a run for Quinlan, hopelessly intending to tackle him before Bond gets to pull the trigger.

But Quinlan’s taking long strides towards Bond who is only blinking in confusion, still somehow standing. A second passes--The arm holding the gun starts to falter along with the grip on the laptop. The second after that, Bond attempts to take a step back, hindered by his buckling knees.

The laptop begins to fall and Quinlan isn't fast enough.

“No!” With the amount of emotion in the word, Harry legitimately considers the possibility that it's a bomb.

And yet--It clatters to the floor a second before Bond does, and nothing quite happens.

Nothing but Quinlan kneeling next to a seemingly unresponsive Bond, desperately palming at the laptop before opening it. When it finally powers on, Quinlan’s sigh of relief sounds like a sob. “Bloody hell," He murmurs, voice thick, hugging the machine to his chest.

“For fuck’s sake," Harry mutters in agitation as he walks towards them. “I’ve just aged ten years--and for what?”

Quinlan isn't even paying attention, frowning heavily at the crack on the corner of the laptop lid. There’s severe displeasure and something like indignant heartbreak as he runs his gloved fingers past it.

Harry looms over Bond who is simply on the floor with his head turned, staring at Quinlan like he can't believe what he’s seeing.

To be fair, if Harry was defeated by a boy, he’d probably do the same thing.

“What did you shoot him with?" Harry questions. He assumes it’s a simple knock-out dart, slightly diluted perhaps or slightly altered in chemistry; He’s never seen a reaction like this. Despite his condition, Bond stares and stares as if he's fighting the substance in his bloodstream, the blinking very few in between. However, every time he _does_ blink, the closer he appears to be to losing consciousness.

Which is a problem, because Harry has an obligation. He can't leave him here. Relaying this to Quinlan, he only gets an irritated glare in return.

“Reinforcements will be here soon," Harry reminds him. “Double-oh seven, can you stand?”

It’s a foolish question, clearly futile with the way Bond’s eyes are practically centimetres from closing. Harry sighs and bends over to maneuver an arm around his shoulder.

Quinlan holds out the laptop, quietly urging, “Protect this with your life.”

Unamused, Harry pointedly glances at the unconscious agent on the floor. Quinlan remains adamant.

It's a staring contest they don’t have the luxury to partake in. Without looking away, Quinlan’s mouth ultimately thins before he snaps, “Bond, open your eyes.”

There’s a lull in which Harry continues to hold Quinlan's gaze, reconsidering the boy’s mental state. Trauma in this scenario would be perfectly normal albeit being tremendously inconvenient. Before Harry can find a solution to this predicament, he’s caught off-guard when Bond suddenly opens his eyes, wide and hazy.

Harry’s hold on Bond’s arm releases, letting it fall back down.

Quinlan’s jaw clenches. “Stand.”

With a great amount of effort, Bond begins to do so.

Harry absently finds himself taking the laptop.

The questions are endless and there’s no time for it. As they make their way on and out, Bond hobbling inbetween them and guided by Quinlan's unrelenting grip on his sleeve, they see more armed subordinates. With a combination of luck and good timing, they hide out of sight. It’s almost fully dark outside. Somehow, they manage to exit the area altogether without much trouble using that cover and Quinlan's information.

It takes at least another half an hour until they find their way to an unkempt property with a barn. It would be nice to clean up a bit before intending to go to town.

Or at least, that was the plan.

When Harry returns from his perimeter check of the area, Bond is seemingly unconscious for good. Beside his form on the bed of hay is Quinlan, knees pulled up, laptop on his thigh against his chest. He’s staring into nothing and Harry genuinely considers giving up the truth to Kingsman simply so he can check him into psych.

From all the times over the years that he’s seen him directly, it’s almost absurd that _now_ it actually dawns on Harry. It’s never been more clear as he observes Quinlan’s hunched form.

_He’s just a child._

While Harry has always known that, having had the responsibility of tracking him down and bringing him back to Merlin all those years back, it’s different. For all Quinlan’s maturity and brilliance, he’s never looked much more of a child than he does now. He looks young and old at once. Lost. Scared.

Harry grinds his teeth. He keeps his tone calm and hushed when he crouches in front of him.

“What have you gotten yourself into?”

Quinlan continues to stare into space and Harry thinks to repeat his question just in case he wasn’t heard to begin with but--

“I didn’t--It wasn’t a choice,” The quiet reply comes. “It literally...fell through my window--I’m--” Quinlan leans down against his arm to hide his face.

Harry is severely discomforted by how his heart wrenches. That’s--not good. Emotion, especially in the field, is such an alien prospect. As it should be. Now it’s simply unsettling. He clears his throat. “We can’t stay here. We’ll be found easily if they’re tracking us down. If not that, then the owners of this property should be back soon. There _is_ an old truck in one of the sheds, perhaps we can--”

“No.”

“...What?”

“They won’t find us. There’s no one here. An old noisy truck isn’t the best bet.”

Harry keeps his patience. The boy might be under psychological duress after all. He can’t be thinking properly. “At least we can disappear in the city, in the crowds--”

“Cameras, surveillance. It’s only half past ten in the evening. It’s the Fringe Festival, security at night is reinforced.” Quinlan raises his head slightly, eyes on the dirty ground. “Most of the people after us aren’t loyal. They were only paid labourers with low prospects in the basic employment market due to lack of skills and qualifications--with the likely disadvantage of misdemeanours on their records as well. Now that they’ve seen the violent downfall, it is unlikely they would pursue.”

Despite being unsettled at the casual analysis, Harry remains cautious. “...But there is still that risk. I’m afraid I can’t--”

“No one lives here. At least not for the past few months--and for the next few after. Frank and Alice McLoughlin have won a one hundred eighty-day cruise around the world.”

Harry stares, finally giving into sitting on the dirty ground.

Quinlan averts his gaze. “I live here. Sometimes. Just for the summer hols. Volunteer arrangement. I’m meant to take care of the remaining animals. There’s only like...seven. A month into their cruise, the McLoughlins called and said they were selling most of them. They wanted to retire.” He halts his senseless rambles, picking at a thread on his sleeve. “Suppose seeing the world changes perspective.” There’s a lull of quiet and he finally meets Harry’s gaze. “If anyone so much as goes through the fence, I will know.”

Harry finds himself nodding. “...Dare I ask?”

“There’s no guarantee I would be speaking the truth.”

“What’s in the laptop?”

Quinlan grimaces. “Nothing. It’s mine. I made it.”

Trying to get a better look is futile because Quinlan hugs it tighter. Harry sighs.

“It’s mine,” Quinlan repeats.

Harry raises his hands slightly, placating. “Alright. Would you at least give me any context for what you were doing there?”

Quinlan fidgets. “Long story short: I thought I could stop it. I was wrong.”

“Stop what?”

Quinlan shakes his head. “I--They were doing a lot of things. They were trying to ‘branch out’, as it were, crime-wise. Weapons smuggling--basic, cyberterrorism--more interesting. People from different groups and interests were working together. Which brought tension, of course, but--the economy…”

“...What about it?” Harry keeps his patience.

“The Americans are about to make a mess of things,” Quinlan begins.

“Of course,” Harry agrees. “They already have. They always will, that’s a given.”

“Yes, but you don’t understand. This is going to be one of the most terrible economic downturn in decades.”

“W--I don’t quite understand. The economy is not within a single power’s control--”

“True, Europe and its banks are to blame as well, but _cyberterrorism_ , Galahad,” Quinlan tells him, “The problem with the economy is bad as it is, but no one sees it. No one usually does until the ramifications are felt. The very few who are privy to this knowledge keep their silence as to not cause a panic. That's basic protocol." His lips thin as he stares at the dirt under his fingernails. " _Some_ , however, have decided to take advantage of the situation, in regards to stocks, banks, even the little things. It’s quiet, it’s subtle. The operation was to take little by little unnoticed. Most of the people they stole from were the kind of people who couldn’t report it to the authorities, even if they _did_ notice. They were stealing from the people who were stealing as well. The perpetrators aren’t limited to what you’ve seen here. There’s more all over the globe. At least three main locations from what I’ve gathered.”

Harry tries to wrap his head around this whole situation. “What were _you_ doing, exactly?”

“I was observing their operation, learning their tactics, I was bidding time, working on a separate code, waiting for the right moment. But...enough damage has been done. I tried--” Quinlan huffs in aggravation, “You have to know I _tried_.”

Immediately, Harry shakes his head in protest. “Quinlan, the whole world shouldn’t be on your shoulders. You’re barely twenty,” He attempts to mollify him, but it’s no use. It's also a lie in a way. Hypocritical at the very least. Harry remembers what he was doing when he was twenty.

“Galahad, within a year, you will see,” Quinlan insists, resigned and guilty. “You’ll know what I’m talking about. Economy and politics are always intertwined. The economy of one nation affects another. People will lose their homes. Prices will go up. People will be desperate, people will hurt other people and people will hurt themselves.”

Despite his control, Harry’s stomach churns at Quinlan’s insistence. “How long since you’ve had proper sleep?”

Quinlan stares at him strangely. “It doesn’t matter. Nothing matters.”

There's a sudden scratching noise on the barn door and Harry is immediately reaching for his gun. Quinlan raises a hand, stern.

They stare at each other, silently arguing as the sounds go on.

Eventually, Quinlan rolls his eyes and huffs. "It's just Camilla."

"Camilla?"

"It's the farm pig. Either that or Philip. He's the deer-hound--I mean, I'd say it's Charles the sheep because he's needy but," Quinlan scrunches his nose, checking his watch. "It's late, he sleeps early."

Harry raises his eyebrows, uncertain what to do with that information. “If you do indeed live here, can we at least move to the main house? Bond could use some medical treatment.”

Frowning, Quinlan glances back to Bond, unconscious on a bed of hay. “He’s fine. He’s had worse.”

Harry raises his eyebrows at that. There are things that can be taken from those words, implications that formulate questions demanding answers, but Quinlan’s already scowling, defensive.

The strain on the boy is too much already. Harry won’t chance pushing him to the breaking point. A part of him complains that he’s being soft. But that’s preposterous. Why would Harry be soft? When has Harry ever been soft? It’s simply logical. “Can we at least move on to the main house? I’d prefer to wash up.”

“Yes, yes, alright,” Quinlan mutters, standing with his laptop and sparing Bond a glance. “I’m not carrying him. There’s a wheelbarrow somewhere. Use it if you want. I’m not going to bother.”

The idea of putting Bond in a rusty wheelbarrow--designer suit and all--is quite humorous to Harry. Regardless, he hides his snort by clearing his throat.

 

\--»

 

Eggsy finds himself blinking awake at arse o’clock. He frowns against Galahad, staring into the darkness, letting his eyes adjust and wondering why. In a split-second, he’s palming at his bedside table for one of his mobiles.

 

**13\. 08. 2007 - Hazly Wobbles:**

_What happened to being ‘good’?_

**13\. 08. 2007 - Hazly Wobbles:**

_Punishment suggestions: I’ve been under the impression that you’ve come to despise shopping. Would that suffice?_

**14\. 08. 2007 - Hazly Wobbles:**

_Perhaps a puppy?_

 

Eggsy blinks. In absolute rage, he forgets what time it is and presses the call button.

“ _...Yes?_ ” The answer eventually comes, groggy.

“You are _not_ getting me a puppy, what the fuck, where would I even put it? I’m pretty sure the landlord would kick us out. We don’t even have a yard. The nearest park is like, I don't even know," He rambles on, barely awake and delirious, “Who would take care of it? I have work if not school and the other thing and the other _other_ thing--’

“-- _Excali_ \--”

“--And my mum has like how many jobs? We’d need to revise the budget to feed it too. Less cup noodles for me. Which is a problem ‘cos I’m a growing boy, me, and I need to eat, Harry--”

“-- _Eggs_ \--”

“A dog! Fuckin’ ace--but _responsibility_. I have enough of those, I’m just a teenager please don't make me responsible for a life I’m--"

_“--Darling.”_

Eggsy stops, breath hitching. He doesn’t know for how long he holds it. In the stark silence, it’s uncontrollable, the way his exhale shudders.

“...Yeah?”

Shit.

Shitshitshit.

 

\--

 

Shit.

Shitshitshit.

Slightly more awake under the cover of his suit jacket, Harry takes a slow glance through the dim lighting to where Quinlan lies asleep on the sofa across. Surrounded by animals, the boy’s on his front, laying on top of his laptop, clutching it securely, head slightly peeking to the makeshift bedding on the floor where Bond is. At first, Harry had suspected that Quinlan simply didn’t want to give up a sofa space, but considering that one of Bond’s wrist is cable-tied to a leg of the heavy coffee table, it might be a security precaution.

Regardless, he genuinely seems to be in a deep sleep. Quinlan shouldn't have heard anything.

Shouldn't.

Harry stares a few seconds longer in a fit of paranoia.

Settled by Quinlan's feet, Henry the lamb opens an eye, staring directly at him.

Harry finds himself narrowing his eyes in return, unsettled and defensive. Still, that doesn't detract from the fact that even if he was heard, Harry wouldn't know what to do or what lie to tell. He’s mentioned Eggsy by name already.

" _...Harry?_ "

Rubbing his temple, Harry sighs and murmurs lowly, "Wh...why are you awake at--" He glances at his watch, standing from his own sofa across Quinlan’s. "Three seventeen in the morning?"

“ _Psh--Why am_ I _awake at three seventeen in the morning? Why are **you** awake at three seventeen in the morning? Suspicious,_” Eggsy accuses, and Harry almost trips on the bloody goose sleeping on the floor.

“...E--You called me,” He reminds him quietly, folding his suit jacket and laying it on the back of the sofa. The old cat suddenly swishes her tail and Harry gives it a warning look. Bulletproof isn't exactly _feline_ proof.

“ _...Oh--Erm..._ ”

Harry takes pity on him. “Why don’t we have this talk in the proper hours of the day--”

“ _No puppies!_ ” Eggsy hisses with vehemence.

Harry huffs, taking the chance to peek past the curtains through the windows. One of them should have been keeping watch all throughout, but Quinlan had insisted on volunteering the farm dog with that duty. Ridiculous.

“ _D’you hear me, Harry? No puppies! Don’t even bring one face to face--That’s just cruel, how could I reject it then? We’d all live in hunger and poverty._ ”

“The fact that you’d think I’d leave you all to suffer is simply offensive,” Harry sniffs, speaking quietly, trapping his mobile between his ear and his shoulder as he does a routine check of the guns on his shoulder holsters. “It doesn’t need a yard, London has plenty of parks.” Startled by a movement in the corner of his eye, he almost shoots a fucking goat. Harry grits his teeth. Why the bloody hell Quinlan keeps them _in_ the house is a mystery. It's a miracle they don't make a mess.

“ _...Oi, you can’t be serious. I barely have time to--_ ”

“Alright,” Harry relents, soft. “I understand. I wouldn’t want to stress you out. It’s not the right time. I completely agree. Perhaps someday.”

It was a suggestion made in light teasing to begin with anyway. It wasn’t meant to be taken seriously.

Why the bloody hell is he disappointed?

He shoots a pointed look at the goat and waves him away. Harry frowns at the guns placed on the side table before putting them back in their holsters.

“ _Unless_ **you** _get a dog and I can visit_ ,” Eggsy suddenly blurts out, “ _Then that’s--you know. Acceptable._ ”

In silent despair, Harry genuinely considers doing so, pacing in distress, but, “My schedule wouldn’t allow--”

“ _Yeah, yeah, I thought so. Nevermind then,_ ” Eggsy hastily says.

“Well, we could always--”

 _We could always leave it with Merlin in HQ_ , Harry almost says, and he’s absolutely stunned at himself. Clutching the mobile with one hand, he presses harder at his temple with the other. He needs sleep.

“ _...We could always what?_ ” Eggsy questions.

“Nothing. My apologies,” He murmurs, hushed. “It’s late.”

“ _...Yeah,_ ” Eggsy eventually says, “ _Yeah, okay. G’night, Harry_.”

Harry waits for the call to drop.

It doesn’t.

He huffs. “...So shopping would suffice then?”

Eggsy balks. “ _No! Bye--Wait--When you coming home?_ ”

Harry can feel himself slump from his place on the wall. “I can’t say, I’m afraid. Hopefully within twenty-four hours. There’s no guarantee. I’m sorry.”

“ _...That’s okay. Just--You know. Date. With my mum._ ” Eggsy clears his throat. “ _Whatever. Goodnight. Be safe--Dumb arse._ ”

Despite it all, Harry finds himself still smiling softly for who knows how long. Long enough for Quinlan to clear his throat from somewhere.

Breaking out in cold sweat while being flushed with absolute shame is a very unpleasant sensation. Harry cautiously peeks his head past the wall he’s leaning on.

In the living room, Quinlan’s sitting up on the sofa next to his animals, blinking blearily and hugging the laptop to his chest. After holding Harry’s gaze for a few seconds, he huffs, small. “I thought you made a run for it and left me with this prick.”

He’s back to that hushed tone again, the one that’s supposed to make people at ease. It has the opposite effect on Harry. Bond is still on the floor, unmoved after all these hours. A few feet away from his unconscious form, a sleeping duck flutters its feathers. “Are you sure he isn’t dead?”

Quinlan frowns. “I’d check his pulse but…” He shrugs and curiously prods Bond’s side lightly with a socked foot instead.

Harry stares, starting to make his way back. “You do know that’s a highly dangerous individual.”

Mild annoyance flashes through Quinlan’s features before he prods at him again, much harder this time. “He won’t be awake for hours.”

“And yet you cable-tied him anyway.”

“Precautions,” Quinlan snipes back, defensive, absently petting at the lamb one handed.

Harry takes the chance to check the man’s vitals anyway. “You need to check in with your father.” Even as he says the words, he knows it’s unlikely.

“I have no obligation to do so.”

Sighing, Harry tries regardless, sitting back on the coffee table. “He’s worried about you. He’ll never say it, of course, but--”

“I get it, I do,” Quinlan insists, and he surprisingly seems genuine. “Tell him that I thank him for the opportunities he’s given me--Education wise, institutions that might have been more difficult for me to get into without his money. I understand that he’s trying, that he has been. What he needs to understand is that there was never a need. He’s practically a sperm donor. That’s a fact, and that’s okay.”

Harry manages not to squirm despite his severe discomfort. “Quinlan, he cared for your mother--”

“But not like that. It was for science--" He shrugs, overly casual. "I’ve been trying to come to terms with it. I’m afraid I’m still going to be petulantly bitter about it every now and then, but trust me when I say I’m working on it.”

This shouldn’t be any of his business. Harry has enough problems as it is. This is why he doesn’t like getting involved with other people. God forbid Harry actually cares and makes their problems his own. And yet.

“...You’re...‘working on it’,” He repeats.

“Yes.”

“I wouldn’t know if you’re doing a good job, I don’t know you that well--Would you say you’re doing a good job?”

Quinlan squints at him, perplexed and suspicious. “...Yes?...Perhaps…?”

Harry nods, doing his best not to be incompetent. “So...you wouldn’t...need some sort of...physical reassurance…?”

Quinlan stares and they both stew in the uncomfortable silence. Harry regrets everything, just as he knew he would.

“Dear god,” Quinlan suddenly bursts out. “I knew it,” He groans in distaste, face scrunching, “You’ve gone... _soft_.”

Harry gawks at the way Quinlan carelessly gestures at his everything. “I was simply--”

“So... _paternal--_ ”

Scowling, Harry stands. “That’s it, that’s got to be the third time within the past few days that’s been referenced--I’m leaving.”

Quinlan hisses. “You are _not_ leaving me with an MI6 agent, that’s against some sort of rule--somewhere.”

Harry arches a superior brow. “Is it?”

Muttering, Quinlan shifts to sit on his laptop. “If--theoretically--I wouldn’t...mind a hug or an awkward shoulder pat…”

Despite Harry’s blank face, the internal panic is going haywire, especially when Quinlan stiffly stretches an arm out. Harry considers running back to the warehouse complex. He grits his teeth, artlessly mirroring the action. This whole situation is preposterous, even more so when one considers that Bond lies unconscious on the floor between them.

Harry gracelessly clasps Quinlan’s elbow. He clears his throat. “You’ve...done well.”

“Buggering hell, you’re the worst,” Quinlan actually stands, making coaxing motions at him. “How does Eggsy deal with you? I’ve just infiltrated a criminal organisation--Granted, I’ve failed in the end and the world will suffer, but just be quiet and--I need this. Psychologically. I’d like to function in the morning. So...”

A part of him cringes at that. It’s true, after all. The boy needs this. Even Eggsy needs his fix, how did Quinlan manage to survive all this time with all the weight he’s been carrying? Harry fights with himself, encircling his arms around Quinlan’s shoulders. The boy’s tall, but not as tall as Harry just yet.

“There you go,” Quinlan mutters, turned away from his neck. “Relax. Just pretend I’m Eggsy--but more paternal, obviously.”

Harry goes rigid. “Of course it’s paternal, what else could it be?”

“You’re plain embarrassing,” Quinlan complains, and Harry retaliates by patting at his extremely short hair a bit more forcefully than necessary.

“What’s with young people cutting their hair so short nowadays?” Granted, Eggsy looks good but he always--Harry scowls, clutching harder.

“Galahad, my own father is bald.”

“True.” Harry relents, and he strives to be a responsible adult. “In all seriousness, what you’ve done is reckless. Without proper authorisation, it’s highly illegal as well.”

“You’re supposed to make me feel better. You’re terrible at this.”

“...I’d tell you that you’ve managed well, _however_ that might inspire you to repeat such an offence, therefore I will not tell you such a thing despite how true it may be.” He feels Quinlan slightly melt against him. Slightly. If it were Eggsy in his place, alone and in danger, Harry can’t imagine the absolute despair that would consume him. Harry will always do his best to be there for Eggsy. But who does Quinlan have by his side? “You can’t do this again. I’ve lied to your father enough. Don’t make me go any further.”

Quinlan’s clutch on his shirt tightens. “So you won’t tell?”

Harry presses his lips tight. “I don’t know if it will be enough. But from now on I will be keeping an eye on you as well.”

“Oh no,” Quinlan despairs, miserable. “You don’t have time for that.”

“You’re not giving me much choice,” Harry exasperates, “You have to prove that you can be trusted on your own. A probationary period, as it were. I want this even less than you do, but you can’t get caught up in any more shenanigans like this. Do you understand?”

There’s a brief lull of silence before Quinlan ventures, hushed, “He’s changed you, you know. I don’t know if it’s for better or worse, but he has.” Harry frowns, puzzled, but Quinlan resumes talking, soft and tired. “That’s the worst part--When you think you know yourself, when you’re certain, and someone comes along to ruin it.”

Harry’s stomach churns and he’s unable to speak. Does Quinlan know? He can’t possibly know.

“You’re going to have your hands full, Galahad. Goodluck.”

 

\--»

 

It’s still early when Eggsy takes the gauzes off. He bids his time before meeting with Cavendish by checking out a few charity shops. Honestly, there’s an ugly dress for three quid and it’s tempting to just give it to his mum--but that’s just pure savage as fuck. She’s done nothing wrong.

Scowling, he pulls his mobile out.

 

‘ _What do you like_ ’

 

The reply comes fifteen minutes later.

 

**14\. 08. 2007 - Hazly Wobbles:**

_Specify._

‘ _Date’s dress attire_.’

 

**14\. 08. 2007 - Hazly Wobbles:**

_No preference, Eggsy._

 

‘ _Such a fucking liar--you with your delicate gentleman sensibilities?_ ’

 

Thirty minutes pass by and there still isn’t a reply. Eggsy tries not to feel bad if he’s offended him.

Good.

 

\--

 

Harry sighs, craning his head back to the truck, glancing at Bond in the passenger seat.

It’s taken much longer than expected to retrieve his glasses from the compound. Perhaps that's because they’ve had to burn the whole place down. Merlin would be livid if he knew.

To be fair, he’d be livid regardless of the arson. Harry looks to Quinlan whose eyes are transfixed to the scene before them. He’s wearing a white coverall over his normal clothes as if he’s watched too many crime scene programmes. It’s the only humorous part and it’s what Harry chooses to focus on, lest he allows Quinlan’s [morose](http://i.imgur.com/RB7kRyQ.jpg) expression to affect him.

Soon enough, Quinlan returns to the truck. Slightly behind him, Harry raises an eyebrow when the boy encircles his fingers around Bond’s wrist from the backseat. Quinlan frowns, glancing back and forth from Bond’s wrist to his watch.

“Problem?”

“No,” mumbles Quinlan. He calmly continues. “You’ll be dropping me off the road. I’ll make my way back to the farmhouse. You’ll be going back to London with him in tow.”

“...Yes.” Harry nods, slightly perplexed. “Has there been a change in plans?”

“No. Simply...When you get there,” Quinlan begins, cautious. “Could you, perhaps, get an MRI done on him? I’d like to get access to the results, the blood work as well.”

They stare at each other. Harry tilts his head.

Quinlan clears his throat lightly. “It’s for science.”

Harry narrows his eyes. “I’m quite certain you’d be capable of getting access either way.”

“I’m not meant to get in trouble,” Quinlan slowly reminds him, “Remember?... _Dad_?”

“Only Eggsy’s allowed to harass me with that--Don’t make it a habit,” Harry grimaces. “Don’t let your father hear you say that as well. He’ll send me to my death out of pure spite.”

“I wouldn’t do that,” Quinlan murmurs, averting his gaze and positioning Bond to look more natural in his seat. “Eggsy would be sad.”

“Quinlan,” Harry carefully begins, eyes on Bond. “Are you sure he isn’t dead?”

The look of condescension sent his way truly reminds Harry of Merlin. “Have a little faith. Killing him would be my undoing--MI6 would never leave me alone. Besides, he needs the sleep.”

Harry huffs. “Death or comatose, I don’t know which is worse--Let’s get a move on. I’ve got eight hours to London.”

He drops Quinlan off, but before he can drive away, Quinlan frowns at him through the window.

Harry raises an eyebrow. “Yes?”

“Did you get Eggsy something?”

Harry blinks at him, absently palming at his suit jacket pocket to make sure it’s there. “Yes, of course.”

Quinlan rolls his eyes. “Yes, right. Of course. Carry on--Oh, and if you tell anyone about last night...”

“I know not what you speak of," Harry manages to rush out before abruptly stomping on the gas pedal.

 

\--

 

“Yev, help,” Eggsy whines through the mobile, “My mum’s going on a date with you-know-who. Where do I find cheap nice dresses?”

“ _Voldemort wouldn’t date a muggle, sorry. Unless there’s something you’re not telling me about your lineage._ ”

“I’m serious. If she stresses out about this, _I’m_ going to stress out. I’m taking care of the problem before it escalates.”

“ _Hunting vintage dresses through charity shops is my favourite hobby with Alicia. Give me half an hour, I’ll meet you wherever._ ”

“Didn’t you just get back from Sweden?”

“ _Yep._ ”

Guess Sweden didn’t work out with the Forgetting Alicia Longman Initiative™. The fact that she’s mentioned her within ten seconds in a fresh conversation should have been a hint. Jesus.

“Oi, I’m not feeling the ‘vintage’ thing. Like, I mean, Mr. Hart might be old, but he’s not _that_ old. You better trust--”

“ _\--You better trust my damn insight and skill, that’s what._ ”

True to her word, she meets with him, pointedly staring at the mess that is his face before rolling her eyes. She links her arm around his as they walk around London, walking in and out of shops. They end up bickering. A lot.

“Ooo,” Yvonne exclaims, “This is cute.”

“Mr. Hart wouldn’t--”

“This one! I mean, I don’t know what your mum looks like, but I’m trusting your description. This would be good for her aura.”

“Aura?” He scrunches his nose, texting his mum and updating her about his findings. Due to work policies, her mobile is turned off more often than not but it should be lunch soon. “What bloody aura are you on about?”

“You know, we’ve been visiting shops for hours--I don’t know why we bother. I’m pretty sure you’re not planning on actually getting something for your mum.”

“Oi! How dare you accuse me, I’m a good son,” Eggsy stutters.

“Yeah, but you don’t like Mr. Hart for some reason, so...you’re probably going for sabotage. Maybe not outright. Maybe it’s subliminal. Maybe you don’t even know.”

Eggsy stares at the crowded roads as they walk along, concentrating his annoyance on tourists.

Yvonne huffs. “I know you’re trying. You’re probably doing your best. If you want your mum to be happy, it’s probably better to leave things alone, see what happens. At this point, you’re probably just going to end up botching things up, watch.”

He only mutters under his breath. “Stop being so wise.”

When his mobile buzzes, he frantically works on getting it out of his pockets and Yvonne stares at him oddly. He makes sure to angle it away from her view.

 

**14\. 08. 2007 - Hazly Wobbles:**

_Your perception of my delicate sensibilities is imaginary, I assure you._

 

Why does it sound so dirty?

He has the urge to write it in his journal and add it to the ever-growing list of suggestive things that Harry says.

Eggsy glances at Yvonne. “Do you go to church? What church do you go to?”

“I don’t make a habit of it. Doesn’t matter which one as long as it’s pretty. I like to look around and stare at the details.”

“...Huh.”

 

**14\. 08. 2007 - Hazly Wobbles:**

_I hardly mind what people wear, Eggsy. To each their own._

 

He types real quick when Yvonne’s distracted by a scarf.

 

 _‘Bullshit_. _Imma wear a potato sack, watch--you gonna go into a mad raving rant’_

 

He sends it too quick and he realises it too late that it didn’t really make sense. They were supposed to be talking about Harry’s date with his _mum_ , not--

 

‘ _I mean, I remember u lookin nauseous cos of my skinny low jeans guv. You care about attire. Stop pretending.’_

 

Eggsy frowns. That’s probably worse. He gives up, remembering one of Yvonne’s several questions.

 

‘ _YOUR DATE WITH MY MUM WHATS THE THEME?_ ’

 

**14\. 08. 2007 - Hazly Wobbles:**

_Platonic support._

 

Eggsy scoffs in absolute disbelief. People in the shop stare at him. He clears his throat, looking properly chagrined about it. He moves near the exit.

 

‘ _Oi, u piece of shit is2g, gimme a straight answer for once in ur life. Posh dinner or nah?_ ’

 

**14\. 08. 2007 - Hazly Wobbles:**

_Your definition of posh is relative._

**14\. 08. 2007 - Hazly Wobbles:**

_Also, take note: Every time you curse, the shopping limit increases by one._

 

Eggsy gawks, briefly looking to the sky for answers before going back to his mobile.

 

 _‘???!?!?!?!?!!?!??!?!?!?!?!_ ’

 

**14\. 08. 2007 - Hazly Wobbles:**

_Perhaps I shall take proper grammar into account as well._

 

Eggsy whines uselessly at his phone.

“Did you get a new girlfriend while I was out of the country or something?” Yvonne suddenly asks, and he flinches, hiding his mobile.

“No,” He vehemently denies. “Just an argument with a...really annoying person. Driving me bonkers.” He changes topics quickly. “We’re getting nowhere here. When’s the next dance rehearsal?”

She shrugs. “The songs will be finalised, but I’ll have to take into account the costumes and how comfortable they are. Did you try yours on yet?”

“Err. No.”

To be honest, he didn’t even open the box. Just shoved it in under his bed next to Cavendish’s parcel. Shit. He needs to open that.

Yvonne rolls her eyes. “Try it on by Thursday.”

Eggsy nods dutifully, peeking at his incoming texts.

 

**14\. 08. 2007 - Hazly Wobbles:**

_If the shopping limit exceeds 25, I might just get you a puppy after all._

 

Choking on your own spit in public is very embarrassing. Yvonne stares at him like he’s the worst idiot she’s ever seen.

“M’sorry, I--need to go to the loo for a bit,” He manages.

 

\--

 

Traffic on the motorway has never been more entertaining.

Harry’s mobile buzzes.

“Yes?”

“ _We’ve talked about this--How dare you threaten me with a puppy, I--_ ”

“You’ve promised to be good,” Harry reminds him, glancing at Bond instinctively. The man’s still unconscious. It’s been roughly fifteen hours since Quinlan did whatever he did, but with Eggsy on the other end, he’d rather not worry about the consequences of bringing a possibly comatose MI6 agent back to Vauxhall. “You seemed very adamant on keeping your promise. I think I’ll help you achieve it.”

“ _But--_ ”

“Thus,” Harry emphasises, “To enforce such behaviour, there will be consequences--and rewards.”

Eggsy breathes out in a rush. “ _God, you’re such an arseh--_ ”

“Careful. Your shopping limit is currently at nine.”

“ _Nine?_ ” Eggsy exclaims, “ _But--I can’t believe this--I--_ ” Eggsy stutters into nothing. Just as quick, he returns, quietly determined. “ _I’m gonna wreck you, I swear to god._ ”

Harry blinks. “Do you swear? Truly?”

“ _Absolutely._ ”

“That’s ten.”

“ _Bloody fu--_ ”

“Eleven. Or is it twelve?”

“ _No, I--Oh god--hng. Wait, wait, grammar can’t count, that’s not fair. Text speak is just quicker. Let me live._ ”

“Hmm.” Harry genuinely considers it. “It will be up for discussion. We’ll incorporate it into our lessons.”

“ _Lessons--_ ” Eggsy balks, “ ** _Mr. Hart_** _, back at it with the teaching. Oh my g--Wait, wait, are you a religious bloke or something? Does using god’s name in vain count in your deranged system ‘cos it offends you and you don’t wanna go to hell or somesort--_ ”

“Don’t be ridiculous, I was always meant for hell,” He reveals casually, “I simply wasn’t certain which level.”

“ _Well, when you figure it out, tell me._ ”

“What for?”

“ _You think you can get away from me that easily? I’m following your dumb arse, watch._ ”

Harry chuckles softly. “I’m afraid I won’t let you.”

“ _Cute, you think you have a choice._ ”

 

\--»

 

“I hate him,” Eggsy scowls at Yvonne’s fancy ceiling, sucking at his lollipop in absolute petulance.

“Get your feet off my sofa.”

Eggsy whines. “But why? You’ve literally had people snogging on here.”

“Every post-party, I have the whole place taken care of. People can be gross,” She tells him, walking out of the kitchen with a small cup of ice-cream and a spoon. “So get your feet off my sofa.”

“My socks are fresh every morning!” Eggsy lies, defensive.

All she does is laugh.

He pouts, muttering under his breath. “You’re worse than he is.”

She jumps on the other end and puts her legs up, feet prodding at his abdomen. “Worse than who?”

“Oi!” Eggsy moves around, trying to get comfortable.

Yvonne rolls her eyes. “I can’t imagine Mr. Hart letting _anyone_ put their feet on his sofa, so there.” She starts digging for some ice-cream.

“Well, you better fucking believe it ‘cos--” He freezes.

Shit. She’s right. Eggsy can’t imagine it either and _he_ had his feet on Harry’s sofa. With Harry on it at the same time. What the fuck.

“You going to continue that sentence or no?”

Eggsy gnaws on his Sugar Daddy lollipop in anxiety. “Nuh.”

What the fuck does it all mean? Confusion and doubt are always a theme when he tries to think about what Harry feels or wants. Mostly because Eggsy's biased, whether that's with his own urges or his wretched shitstorm of hormones and his pathetic self-esteem.

He’s even confused when it comes to his _own_ feelings and shit.

Eggsy wants his mum to be happy, of course.

_Of course._

But sometimes just when he thinks he’s gonna follow through that initiative, he finds himself wanting to imagine scenarios on how to ruin it all. Because--

“I hate him," He utters against his lollipop. “I hate him, I hate him, I hate him.”

“Just because he’s dating your mum? It's not as if he's a terrible person though, is he?”

“...No." The admission tastes bitter on his tongue. Harry’s nothing like Dean. He’s gentlemanly and shit, and it’s really annoying. He’s perfect for Eggsy’s mum. He wouldn’t hurt her. He wouldn’t lie and mess about, he’s not dangerous.

Well, Harry _is_ a liar, but that’s--and Eggsy _has_ seen him fight a whole bunch of people and be real threatening to that one bloke on the pitch but that’s--

That’s different.

It’s different.

His mum deserves the best, and who’s better than Harry Hart?

No one, that’s who.

“But he’s annoying," He blurts out, insistent.

“Is that so?" Yvonne humours him.

“Hell yeah, he is! Like, who does he think he is, waltzing into my life all--" He gestures gracelessly into thin air. “Posh and composed with his suits and his ‘let me teach you things’ and ‘manners maketh man’. ‘Oh, you're having trouble with that? I’ll help you--if you’ll _allow_ it’,” Eggsy mimics grandly in a hysterical rush.

Yvonne snorts. “You make him sound like a romantic gentleman from the Victorian Era.”

Eggsy scowls, hoping the flush doesn't show in his expression ‘cos holy shit. That’s true. “I don’t mind him being nice and perfect--just as long as he doesn't do it around my mum, because _come on_ ,” He stresses, agonised.

“The damage’s been already done, hasn't it?”

Slightly shifting on his place on the sofa, he stares at the floor. “Yeah.”

For a few seconds there’s only silence. The thing about silence is that it leaves you alone with your own mind, your own thoughts, and it could easily spiral out of control to the worst scenarios of all time.

Eggsy hopes his voice is steady when he ventures, “Remember when you said you’d seduce him off my mum?”

Yvonne stares at him. “Remember the last time you asked this and I asked you about your mum’s happiness?”

He manages not to squirm. Eggsy purses his lips, averting his gaze. “Yeah, but it doesn’t mean we can't _fantasise_ about it. C’mon. How would you do it?”

“Hmm. Fantasise…” She makes herself more comfortable on the sofa. “Okay. Like, as it is? Or in general?”

“What?”

“As myself? Or...whatever?”

Shit. Are they actually doing this? “...I don’t know," He tells her, cautious.

“Because I can be you," She tells him simply.

 _Fuck_ \--he stares at her, eyes wide, pulse skyrocketing.

Yvonne huffs, waving a hand. “Don’t look so terrified. I meant, you know, I could be in your position. Him dating my mum-- _Ooo_ ," She jeers, scandalous, “That’s it! Do you have any idea how much porn is set up like this?”

“What?”

“You know! Oh my god, I can really call him daddy then--if he marries my mum, I mean.”

Eggsy grits his teeth. “It’s hardly worth it to get him to marry your mum just ‘cos you wanna call him daddy. Just fucking call him daddy.”

She rolls her eyes. “Yeah, but you don’t see it, do you? The vision.”

“For fuck’s sake," He mutters, “What vision?”

“It’s the taboo of it all. It’s wrong to lust after an older man who’s old enough to be your father, but to the man who is actually your prospective step-father? _That’s_ fucked up," She tells him, shaking her head.

Eggsy swallows. “Yeah, but then what?”

“It could start off...simple," She begins.

“Uhuh, simple how?” He licks his lips nervously.

“Well, they’re still dating right? Not married yet. So it could start off as a ‘child-getting-to-know-prospective-parent’ thing. He could come over to the house, but my mum could be busy getting her make-up on in her room or something. And that takes _forever_ \--”

“Mhm.”

“So it would be just him and me. There could be awkward small talk, because he’s polite, isn’t he? But eventually I’d get him to warm up. It would start of slow, many moments like these, and little by little you...change a bit.”

“Change?"

Yvonne squints into the distance. “Sit differently? Not too suggestive right away, of course. And if there’s a joke or two, I’d laugh but I’d touch him--innocent enough--maybe on the shoulder or the arm.”

Eggsy frowns. “You mean sit and accidentally shift your skirt or something?”

“Yes. Exactly.”

Eggsy purses his lips. He’s not gonna fucking wear a skirt. “Next scenario. This is too slow.”

“Tsk." She prods at him with a foot. “Slow and steady wins the race. The point is to slowly drive him insane, bit by bit, and-- _Ooo,_ ” Yvonne’s at it again, staring down at her cup of ice-cream. “You could be having ‘family’ dinner. And you’d just--" She takes a spoonful of ice-cream up and gracefully inserts it into her mouth. She keeps it there for a moment, moaning, swallowing around it before pulling it out slow.

Jesus.

“Nuh uh," Eggsy shoots her down, remembering the Banana Incident. “Your mum would know right away what the fuck you were tryna do.”

“That’s why you have to do it perfectly," She snipes back, “Natural and completely innocent.”

Eggsy’s pulse picks up just thinking about trying it. The consequences are just too much if he fails and gets too obvious.

Yvonne sighs. “Maybe it can't be stopped in time. Maybe they _will_ get married.” Eggsy balks, but she suddenly smirks. “And maybe I’d be so frustrated that I could break--just drag him for a kiss without my mum around.”

“What the fuck--”

“And see, he probably would try to resist at first--but that’s why I have to be good. Really, _really_ good that he can’t pull away anymore and I’d just--make him come. And that’s when you know the power is in your hand.”

“Yeah?" Eggsy breathes. “But he wouldn’t let it happen again--”

“Yeah, that’s what he thinks. But it’s all about persistence. When he remembers how you’ve made him come the first time, ugh, he shouldn’t be able to resist--Plus, there’s always the blackmail material, the fact that there was a first time to begin with.”

“Jesus fucking christ," Eggsy finds himself hissing, stomach churning. “That’s fucked up. That’s fucked up.” He shoves a new lollipop in his mouth so he doesn't have to speak.

“I never said it wasn't. He’d be married to my mum, but I’d have fucked him in every room of the house--”

“What the fuck, no," He tries to resist the idea. “Move on. This scenario’s weird.”

She huffs. “Not really. Pornsites are littered with the step-family thing, I saw this one where--Ooo! What’s your email, I’ll send you a link.” She pulls out a mobile. It’s not her old one, it’s black and rectangular looking. It’s sleek and new. It seems to be--

“Shit, is that an iPhone?" He exclaims. “That’s not meant to be out here til November!”

She shrugs. “An expat family friend let me borrow it, but I’ll have to get the UK version once it gets here. Do you want to have a go?”

Eggsy pauses. He’s a poor bastard, but he doesn’t want to be _that_ guy, sadly enthusiastic and coming off as desperate. Hopefully he manages to be casual. “Nah. And about the email, it doesn't matter. I don't have a computer and I ain’t watching that on the public library.”

Yvonne stares at him. “Are you telling me you haven’t been watching porn all this time?”

“No! That’s _not_ what I’m saying. Of course I watch it! Just...when I…”

_When I have Harry’s computer, which I left in my room at Harry’s house._

Jesus. He mindlessly considers breaking in again. But that’s just desperate. Eggsy’s not _that_ desperate.

Yvonne is looking at him with cautious pity. “I’ll send you the link anyway. Ryan will give me your email.”

Suddenly unsure if he had a password on his laptop, Eggsy’s eyes go round. Because holy shit. The email application automatically syncs and it shows up with just a click of the app. Shit. Shitshitshit.

“Please don’t." Even as he pleads, he knows that once Yvonne Jansen has decided something it’s a bit of a moot point. Which makes him seriously consider breaking into Harry’s place again. While Harry insists that he respects people’s privacy, it’s technically his computer. So what if he decides to make use of it since Eggsy’s petulant and sulking in his insistence about not needing anything of his? Or what if he suddenly realises that Eggsy doesn't have any other device to conveniently access his email on and decides that he’ll print them out for him just ‘cos he’s being frustratingly nice? Who the fuck knows? With Harry, nothing is ever certain.

So Harry could open the computer, no password and all, and click the mail app. Even accidentally it could happen, Eggsy’s accidentally clicked on apps before.

The thought of Harry blinking at an email titled ‘ _Step-Daddy fuckery---Hardcore_ _XXX_ ’ makes Eggsy want to die in absolute mortification. He defensively sucks harder on his lollipop as if that could keep his expression from being miserable.

“You know, you look like you’re sucking cock," Yvonne tells him, musing.

Scowling, Eggsy pulls it out too soon and it makes a wet noise that causes Yvonne to raise an eyebrow.

Eggsy hisses, trying to not let it get to him. “I doubt a cock could be this small," He argues, defensive, holding the lollipop out, “Especially not H--”

Shit. He shoves it back in his mouth, mumbling around it and averting his gaze.

“Hmm. True. But I think there’s a larger version of that lollipop, I’ll see about getting a hold of it," Yvonne murmurs absently as she types on her iPhone. She suddenly snorts at something. “Yeah, I’m getting you this.”

He narrows his eyes at her. She turns the phone around to show a photo of a woman holding an _enormous_ Sugar Daddy lollipop--Eggsy sputters, “That’s literally as wide as her face! No cock is that big! It can’t be--" He stops, staring at the actual lollipop in front of him. Eggsy panics. Honestly, he’d rather it was this small.

It’d be easier to take, wouldn't it? Who the fuck wants a big cock? Why do people like them big, anyway? What the fuck is wrong with all these people? Jesus fuck, does Harry have a big cock? Will Eggsy have to take it all? He can’t possibly--

Oh god, what if Harry has a massive cock?

_No, no, no._

One of his mobiles buzz.

“Ah, shit. I’ve got to go.”

 

»

 

“ _Ah, Gary, my sincerest apologies, I’ll have to cancel--_ ”

“Ah, no, that’s fine!" That’s fucking brilliant actually, and he manages not to sound too ecstatic about it. He has things to do. He can only hope Cavendish isn’t cancelling because he’s off being a perv and killing someone, because that would be on Eggsy.

“ _We can reschedule after work, if that’s alright? It’ll be better that way, won’t it? Less rush._ ”

Eggsy’s mouth is moving, but no sound comes out. “...Hmm,” He does his best to sound casual. Didn’t Harry say he was coming home today though? “You know I’d love to, but I’m helping my mum with something. I mean, I don’t know, we’ll see. She has a date and it’s posh and stuff and she’s really worried about it and I--”

“ _Oh, that’s quite alright. That’s very nice of you, Gary. You’re a very good boy._ ”

“Yeah? Well, I hope so,” Eggsy mumbles, scrunching his nose. “I’ll update you. If not later then maybe tomorrow? Or whenever you’re free next. I know you’re pretty important and all that, so no pressure.”

“ _Don’t be absurd, tomorrow it is._ ”

Eggsy gets to work early, and he peeks his head past the building to the small street for a few seconds just to stare at Harry’s house.

But no one’s home.

 

\--

 

“Mr. Hart, you do know this is very suspicious,” Tanner tells him, nervously glancing at Bond still unconscious in the passenger seat.

Harry rolls his eyes. “Yes, I did consider leaving him to burn in shambles after the mess he’s made. Shall I drive back to Scotland to do exactly that?”

“No, of course not,” Tanner protests, huffing in agitation, “But you must know you’ll probably be called in for questioning and--”

“Mr. Tanner, there is a reason why I called you here, and it is with the intention of absolute discretion. Of course, being M’s Chief of Staff, you are obligated to tell her. I accept that inevitability. No one else.” Harry keeps his tone and expression mild, staring at him directly. “Now if you don’t mind taking your operative off my hands, I’d very, _very_ much like to go home.”

“...With all due respect, it’d simply be better if you come into HQ to get it over with. You are very intimidating, but please don't forget that I deal with M on a daily basis.”

 

\--»

 

“Hey, Max," Eggsy ventures as they start to close down the shop.

“Mmm?"

“You’ve had lots of girlfriends, right?”

“Define ‘lots’.”

Eggsy huffs. “I dunno, mate. You have experience, is what I’m trying to get at.”

“I have a bad feeling about this conversation.”

Rolling his eyes, Eggsy gets straight to the point. “Real talk though: It’s a general thing, isn't it, that people like bigger cocks?”

Keys clatter to the floor. “Jesus, I knew it.”

“I’m serious. This ain't me trying to be cheeky.”

“What do you want me to say?” Max protests.

“I don’t know, come on. Any of your girlfriends complain?”

“About my...size? No.” Max suddenly stops and turns to look at him. “Is this--? Look, Gary, size doesn't matter." He’s looking Eggsy straight in the eye now. “If anybody tries to make you feel bad about yours--”

Eggsy sputters. “Oi! I’m not--My cock ain't small, my cock’s this big--" He holds both hands out, trying to approximate the proper size. “It’s average, I think.”

Max facepalms. “I don’t want to know.”

“I just--Why do people like big cocks so much, you know what I mean? Ain’t it weird? That’s too much to take in, wouldn't it hurt? Why would--”

“Oh my god, I don’t know!" Max exasperates, “I’m not the right person for this. Ask your step-dad.”

Eggsy’s mouth is open but he can't speak.

Fucking great, now that's one scenario Eggsy’s subconscious will fuck him up with. He grinds his teeth and pulls out his mobile.

 

‘ _Text me when you get home._ ’

 

It’s not that he’s actually going to ask him. Worked up as it is, Eggsy just wants to know if he’s managed to get home or not. That would take the edge off. Now, he doesn't know _why_ , but it's one of those unexplainable things he’s come to accept.

He’s still pretty antsy though. The last time he let the agitation build up, he ended up getting into a fight. As nice as that was, he could’ve easily gotten into serious trouble. Glancing at the time, Eggsy makes a decision. If Harry doesn't text within half an hour, he’ll call Cavendish.

 

\--

 

“Does Arthur know?" M speaks beside him, staring directly forward through the glass where Bond lies in a medical bed.

“No. Surveillance was off.”

“Why did you bother?”

“I’ve been through this with your staff. I was literally subjected to a polygraph test in an ominous room, what more do you want?”

“I want to hear from directly from you. My agent has concussions and he can't seem to be arsed to wake. I’d like you stay. I’d like to see his reaction when he sees you.”

Harry frowns. “If that will prove my innocence and hasten this process so I won't be bothered again, I might as well.”

By the time Harry's in the room, the doctor injects something into the IV system. Frankly, Harry is unsure of what will happen. He has a half-baked explanation if Quinlan is ever mentioned but--Perhaps Harry should have shot him with an amnesia dart after all. His reason for not doing so was that it could have been fatal considering he still doesn't know what full specifics of what Quinlan shot him with in the first place. Chemical reactions can be dangerous that way, and Harry didn’t want to be bringing back a dead agent or something worse.

Bond seems to start showing signs of waking and Harry glances at his vitals. “Doctor, did you perform an MRI as suggested?”

The man looks over Harry’s shoulder to Tanner. Harry follows his gaze to see Tanner nodding. The doctor hands him a clipboard full of actual _papers_ and medical reports. It’s a rather jarring situation, and he has to admit that Kingsman has spoiled him.

The beeping on the monitor slightly picks up as Harry slowly goes over the pages. Quinlan will be glad to know that everything seems fine. No permanent damage as far as Harry can tell. While the boy used ‘science’ as an excuse, Harry had gotten the feeling that he was, in some level, concerned. Quinlan’s not the type to kill a man--With his own hands, at least. This is good news indeed, the boy will have less to feel guilty about.

“Uhm," Tanner starts behind Harry. “Doctor, is this normal?”

“It shouldn’t--"

The beeping has gone haywire and Harry looks up to glance at the vitals again. The doctor’s calling for more medical staff, but before they can get close enough, Bond’s eyes snap open and he jolts up in his bed.

The medical staff flinch, especially when Bond attempts to get out, hindered by the handcuff on his wrist. It doesn't really stop him from trying to get the IV needle out of his skin, frantic.

“Bond," Tanner tries behind Harry.

Bond only scowls. “Get me out." He catches Harry’s gaze and raises an eyebrow. “Was I on my deathbed? It’s not like you to visit.”

“I have to regretfully inform you that even if you _were_ on your deathbed, it’s unlikely that I would," Harry automatically tells him, wry. “However, I’d like to think I’d be there for the funeral, time permitting.”

Bond snorts, still working on his handcuff. “Is there a special occasion I don’t know about?”

“...You don't remember, then?”

Bond purses his lips. “Remember what? I was on a mission. I was spotted by one of them, but someone was suddenly behind me and that’s--" He huffs in aggravation, straining against the handcuff wildly. “I’m fine, I don't need to be here, this is uncalled for.”

M’s voice suddenly floods the room. “Too bad. You’re staying in medical, and you’re going to be _civil_ unless you’d like to be sent back to Scotland for a mandatory holiday.”

Bond’s lips thin, but he rolls his eyes at Harry. “She likes to think she’s my mother, doesn't she? The old _hag_ ,” Bond drawls towards the observation window.

Harry clears his throat. “Well, now that it's all settled--Your agency will debrief you, no doubt. I would personally like to go home now." Harry stops, grimacing. “After my own debriefing, that is.”

 

»

 

“What the bloody hell were you doing?" Merlin demands.

Harry sighs and bears all the criticisms. As always, he likes to think he lies well, having an answer for each question and discrepancy. He’s had time to truly think it through during the drive to London when he wasn't antagonising Eggsy.

Half an hour after the debriefing, Merlin eventually follows him back to the office. Harry makes a show of putting his glasses in a case, and begrudgingly, Merlin does the same.

“Your son is well,” Harry begins.

Merlin freezes. “What?”

“Came across him by accident. Had to cut off surveillance. We had a quick chat.”

“...And then?”

Harry shrugs. “Had to move on with the mission. The Edinburgh Fringe was on its usual crowded mess of a turmoil, but I did enjoy a few shows. Thus, I didn't put on my glasses. Waste of battery. Also, it technically counts as digital piracy as well, doesn't it?”

Merlin’s brows furrow. “You went...to watch--You do know I’m meant to send Morgause your surveillance feeds for analysis. How am I meant to--”

“Postpone it for the North Korean assignment," Harry simply suggests.

There’s a brief lull of quiet where Harry pours a glass of scotch and hands it to Merlin.

Merlin finishes the whole thing in one go, grimacing. “Did you really talk?”

Harry nods, sitting behind his desk. “He said he appreciates what you’ve done for him.”

Merlin squints. “Are you pulling my leg?”

“No. His resentment doesn't stem from your absence as you once thought, at least not entirely.”

Pursing his lips, Merlin waits. Harry sighs. “Eugenics, while well-intended in theory, is an idea that isn't entirely welcomed by some people. Including, ironically, your son. That’s all I’m going to say about it, I need to go home and take a shower. If anyone stops me, may their respective deities help them.”

 

\--

 

Eggsy coughs out smoke, and Cavendish laughs like it’s charming. Eggsy pouts, hiding his annoyance and handing back the cigar.

“Gary, it truly is an honour that you’ve changed your mind.”

“Psh. I said I _might_ be considering the modelling thing. Might.”

“Have you broached the subject with your mother?”

“D’you think I should?”

“She’s your mother. Why not? But then again, you should be turning sixteen soon--I know some models who didn't want to share their earnings. They had perfectly valid reasons as well. It’s your choice, Gary. I’ll talk to her if you’d like.”

Eggsy scrunches his nose. “What reasons could be valid when they don’t offer their money to help at home?”

“Well, some guardians take their money. Use it for less honourable things, for habits and addictions. Liquor, drugs, and so on. It’s quite sad. But such is life.”

“Ah,” Eggsy squirms, genuinely chagrined. It was only a few months ago that he suffered the same fate with Dean. How could he have forgotten?

Eggsy changes the subject. “You know, with all your status, why aren't you photographing them Hollywood stars? They come over here, don't they?”

“I’m unimpressed by fame. I’m attracted to quality," Cavendish professes, blowing out smoke.

“Ooo, damn, guv," Eggsy crows, “You gotta write that in your autobiography or something.” He’s gotta remember that, Harry would be impressed.

Cavendish chuckles. “You’re always so entertaining, Gary. It's good you’ve found the time to grace us with your presence. The only pity is that Lucas left your gift in the other bag," He shoots Wiltshire a chiding look. Eggsy honestly doubts he notices. Wiltshire’s in the ring a few feet away, getting ready to warm up.

Waving it off, Eggsy mollifies him. “That ain’t what I’m here for, guv. I’m here to play.”

Cavendish raises an eyebrow. “Seems to me like you were playing fine on your own.”

Ah, right. The bruises.

Trying not to squirm again, he huffs instead, “I’m a teenager, I get into trouble, me.”

“Clearly. I wonder about your decision making skills sometimes.”

Eggsy scoffs. “Oi, simple--I see something, I get this feeling in my bollocks, right? That’s how decisions are made.”

Cavendish snorts. “I doubt that would help you here.” He glances towards the ring. “Remember, he tends to favour his left. You better watch out.”

Eggsy grins. “Thanks.”

 

\--

 

Uneasy, Harry frowns at his mobile.

It would be too late for him to visit the Unwin flat by now, much less to text Eggsy back. He doesn't wish to wake him again.

There’s no point. It’s better to get some sleep to prepare for the next day. He _is_ working on his self-control, after all.

Just as he dozes off, something buzzes.

He blindly palms at his bedside table for his mobile. But it has no messages.

Which means it's the mobile in the drawer. The one Mycroft had given him.

Harry considers ignoring it, but the risk of not knowing is too great.

 

 

**14\. 08. 2007 - M. H.:**

_Have heard of your good Samaritan act. Worry not. It shouldn’t reach Arthur._

 

That’s a mildly veiled threat, Harry is sure of it.

 

**14\. 08. 2007 - M. H.:**

_I’ve noticed your penchant for The Sun, especially when you’ve just finished a particularly challenging mission._

**14\. 08. 2007 - M. H.:**

_I’d like to direct you to yesterday's. Home section, page 7. Might be of interest._

 

 

Harry rolls his eyes and goes back to sleep.

 

\--»

 

Eggsy wakes up sore. He doesn’t know why he acknowledges it this time, he tends to wake up that way with all the athletic shit he’s been doing.

He rolls his shoulders slowly and gets a move on with his day. He starts with reading Harry’s lesson plan that’s been sitting on Eggsy’s bedside table for days.

The thing is, the _idea_ can't seem to leave him alone. It’s Yvonne’s fault.

As he reads all the ridiculous lessons, the suggestions creep into his mind, barely noticeable at first. In the scenarios in his head, they’re having one of these lessons, and Eggsy’s either sitting too close or too strangely and he’s meeting Harry's eyes, suggestive--which is fucking dumb and mortifying.

God, he hates it.

As it is, he goes to the library to get a book on photography just so he can have something interesting to talk to Cavendish about. After that, he goes to the dance studio for a few rounds of rehearsals.

Eggsy finds himself constantly moving his shoulders back and forth as if that could make it better, but it’s constantly putting him off.

“Is it your rotator cuff?” One of the dancers, Rae, asks.

“My rotator what?”

“Oh man," Peter clicks his tongue in sympathy, “You gotta get surgery for that, there’s no other way. My cousin from the Army tore his ‘cos of the weight and--”

Eggsy balks, startled and terrorised. “What the fuck?”

Yvonne snorts. “Don’t mind them, it’s probably just a strain.”

It’s not that it hurts, not really. There’s just something deep beneath the surface, barely there, and it’s annoying. It’s doing a great job of ruining his day.

“Hey," Yvonne calls to him later, “Don’t forget the costume, yes?”

“Yeah, yeah," He waves her off. “Gotta go to work.”

In the bookshop, Eggsy does his job and occasionally reads the photography book when there’s nothing to be done. But it’s difficult to concentrate and take interest. He supposes it’s better than obsessing about Harry and how his house is literally right there, because it’s about damn time Eggsy gets his dignity back.

‘Cos fuck Harry Hart, that’s why.

Who gives a damn fucking shit? Eggsy can’t wait to get over him.

On the tube, he tries to read one of the newspapers littered around just in case there’s another dead body out there that’s related to this whole undercover thing. After all, he’s still suspicious of Mycroft Holmes. Eggsy’s always keeping an eye out for something that doesn’t match up. Like if someone similar ends up dead but Cavendish has got a solid alibi by being around Eggsy during that time-frame. It seems like a lot of work, but Eggsy’s really confused sometimes because Cavendish seems really nice.

Well, yeah, he’s a bit creepy for hanging around Eggsy, but hasn’t done anything wrong or out of line. Eggsy could easily be one of those charity kids they take out for a treat every once in a while. Cavendish and Wiltshire haven’t explicitly made him feel unsafe or anything. If Eggsy had felt that way, that’s only because _he’s_ the one doing something wrong, hanging around them with the goal of finding some dirt. It’s a mixture of guilt, nerves and paranoia.

Either way, Eggsy’s attempts doesn’t last long because reading in motion only serves to agitate him some more. He settles for taking the newspaper with him.

When Eggsy finally gets home, he opens the box that Yvonne had sent him via Ryan. Honestly, he didn't know what to expect. It’s pretty tame, actually. It legitimately looks like a fire brigade [uniform](http://i.imgur.com/NY9LjoA.jpg?1). Its jacket and trousers are dark navy blue with neon visibility stripes here and there, but there’s a fire brigade shirt and some proper jeans and a belt that he’s instructed to wear underneath it all. There's some heavy boots and a thick pair of gloves too.

It doesn't take long to be severely uncomfortable as he walks around the house wearing the whole damn thing. First of all, it’s summer, it’s hot as fuck. Second, it’s just a bit too bulky, and every move he fucking makes, there’s the fucking sound of shifting fabric. There’s nothing sexy about any of this, he’s walking around like a shuffling penguin.

Eggsy only has enough energy and patience to take the outer layers off, leaving his shirt tucked in when he gives up and takes a kip on the sofa.

Which turns out to be the worst mistake of his life. When he wakes up, the pain on his shoulders is _excruciating_.

He can’t really move his head or his neck, that’s how bad it is. Every tiny movement is like a group of axes bearing down on the muscles connecting his shoulders and his neck. It burns. Pressing down on it alleviates the pain momentarily, but it soon comes seeping back.

It’s absolute misery.

And it pisses him off.

It’s stupid to try fighting pain with doing things that cause more pain, but that’s exactly what Eggsy does. He stands, grabbing the fire brigade jacket and trousers and opening his bedroom to throw them in there.

He opens the cupboards for some food but he’s completely dissatisfied about everything that he’d rather starve. Maybe he could die and not have to deal with it all.

This must be karma or somesort. Eggsy doesn't know what he fucked up exactly, but he wouldn't be surprised.

Desperate, he slightly opens the one window from the kitchen for a bit of air. It should start to cool down in a few hours, the light breeze shouldn't be so warm anymore. Tired and in pain, he grabs the newspaper he’s taken from the tube and sits on the armchair. He still has to make sure that no one’s been hurt. Trying to get into a comfortable position is impossible. He’s practically slumped far back down on the chair that his knees have to be spread wide open.

Eggsy huffs, aggravated. But he only holds the newspaper out with his right hand and props his head up with a fist to his temple. He mutters to himself, dozing off.

 

\--

 

After a long day of doing paperwork, confirming his reports and taking care of business with Quinlan, Harry finally braves his way to the Alexandra Road Estate.

He doesn’t quite know why he’s being quiet when he keys into the Unwin flat. That implies he’s doing something wrong. Which he isn't. Michelle has given him the key and permission to enter, especially when it comes to Eggsy's well-being and lessons.

But he really should make a noise. He attributes it to habit, even though no one’s supposed to be home at this hour. Michelle is working. Eggsy would have finished work but he could be with Miss Jansen and doing those ‘dance lessons’ again.

Harry purses his lips.

After a few days of not laying eyes on him in person, Harry’s mouth parts when he sees [Eggsy](http://i.imgur.com/a9ljAas.gifv) in a fitting dark shirt, seated down on the armchair, leaned far back, knees spread wide and--

“Jesus," Harry helplessly mutters, gripping at the handle on his briefcase.

This is bloody _obscene_. This is not fair.

He considers doing a heel face turn out the door, but Eggsy’s already blinking himself awake, eyes on the newspaper. He looks so _soft_ despite his sharp edges, and thankfully the arousal is eclipsed by a ridiculous amount of fondness.

Who would have guessed that the fondness would be his saving grace?

“Eggsy," Harry begins, hushed.

“Mmm?" The reply is mindless, but soon enough, Eggsy stills, turning to stare at him. He immediately flinches, followed by a pained noise.

Harry frowns. “What’s the matter?”

“ _You’re_ the matter--Ah, shit. We can’t do this today, I’m--”

“What happened to being good?” Harry asks, neutral.

“Exactly!” Eggsy stands, dropping the newspaper on the coffee table and rubbing his shoulder as he makes his way to sit on one of the kitchen stools. “Today is not the day. Bad mood. Sorry. Try again next time. Bye.”

Brows furrowing, Harry follows him. “What’s wrong?”

“You didn't even text me back.”

Harry falters in his steps. “Ah, yes. It was late at night and I didn’t wish to wake you--”

“You texted me past midnight the other night,” He points out, accusing.

“Well, yes, and you called me about it, hysterical--I meant to text you this morning but I--” Harry halts, finding this conversation ridiculous. He finds himself trying uselessly, regardless. “...I’m home now.”

He tamps down the urge to cringe the moment he hears it.

“Don’t--" Eggsy sighs, mulish, head against his forearm on the counter. “You know what? You might as well. What’s the point of that RAMC training?”

“What?”

Eggsy huffs, “Just--” He beckons back at him one-handed, and foolishly Harry complies, making his way behind him and setting his briefcase on the counter.

“What’s the issue here?” Harry questions, concerned, staring down at Eggsy from behind. Eggsy blindly keeps reaching back for something and Harry finds himself offering his hand. Eggsy grabs at it immediately and presses it down on his shoulder.

It’s only instinctive, the way his hand clenches down, but Eggsy abruptly stills, a noise cut off from the back of his throat before he suddenly melts into the touch and sighs, “ _Yeah_ , that’s--do it again.”

Harry blinks.

Oh. Oh no.

_No, no, no._

This is a terrible situation, Harry shouldn’t--

“It hurts, Harry, fix it,” Eggsy all but whines and both of Harry’s hand move of their own accord, settling on Eggsy’s shoulders.

What.

Eggsy bends further forward, leaning his head on his forearm again as he mutters under his breath.

Harry does his utmost best to adopt the ultimate veneer of professionalism. He clears his throat and focuses on his task. “These are very tense,” He begins, trying not to let the suspicion taint his tone. What the bloody hell could Eggsy have been doing? Harry was only gone for forty-eight to sixty hours at best. “What trouble did you get up to?”

Protesting, Eggsy whines, clutching at his hands. “Harder, c’mon, just--”

At this point, Harry has no control over his hands, especially as they follow Eggsy’s orders.

“-- _Ah_ \--” Eggsy’s breath hitches, and Harry can fucking feel it. “ _Yeahhh_ , bloody hell.” Eggsy starts to sit up and lean far back, head against Harry’s chest. Eggsy moves Harry’s right hand, setting it on the place where his shoulder meets his neck. “Right here, Harry, right here.”

Fingers brushing around Eggsy’s throat, Harry grips, and he helplessly looks down as Eggsy arches his neck back, eyes closed, brows furrowed in pain. Which is why Harry’s arousal is completely uncalled for. Eggsy’s in pain, Harry shouldn’t--

“Ah, _ah_ , fuck,” Eggsy breathes out in a soft rush, “Jesus christ, Harry. Yes.”

The shudder that he feels, Harry doesn’t know if it’s from Eggsy or from himself. Beneath his fingers he can feel the rabbiting pulse, the shallow breaths, and Harry is devastated by his own depravity.

He grits his teeth. “What trouble did you get into?”

“I dunno what you're talking about. I coulda slept wrong, me," Eggsy slurs, leaning into his touch.

“Is that why the gauzes aren't on your injuries anymore?" He mildly points out.

Eggsy stills before suddenly turning his head to the side, as if he can feel Harry’s accusing stare and he’s trying to get away from it.

Harry stops in his ministrations, but Eggsy huffs and whines again, grabbing at his hands. “I’m supposed to hate you, you know. This is one of those rare moments where I can’t, so take advantage of it.”

Swallowing, Harry’s hands clench, slow in his strong massage. Eggsy sucks in air through gritted teeth, and Harry is suddenly overcome with a debilitating wave of heat. He hopes that none of it colours his voice when he complains, “Aren’t you the one trained in massage?”

“Hng, that’s different. I can do other people, I can’t do myself--I’ll do you next, if you want.”

“No, thank you,” Harry hastily replies.

“Why not? Work’s gotta be tiring, innit? I can-- _Harder_ , Harry. Harder. Jesus.”

Eggsy doesn't have to tell him, it’s simply instinctive. But Harry comes back to himself, stopping at that level of intensity. This is dangerous, in more ways than one. Eggsy has no idea how many people these bare hands have killed. God, Harry could break him, and that’s a terrifying thought.

“Eggsy--”

“ _Harry_ ," Eggsy protests, leaning his head far back, prodding Harry’s chest with it, urging. Harry looks down at him, at his face angled up, eyes closed, lips parted.

This is temptation personified.

“Harry, come on. Come on, please please please," Eggsy begs lowly, straining.

Throat dry, Harry stares at his own thumb brushing against Eggsy's jugular. “Your mouth…”

“Hmm?”

Harry slowly kneads at his muscles. “...No kissing?”

Eggsy sighs, annoyed. “Of course not, Harry. Doctor’s orders, innit?”

“You didn't exactly follow the other ones. Why should I believe you?”

Why would Eggsy pass up a kiss? Harry thinks Eggsy would like it, kisses. An abundance of them, in many different ways. There would be no shortage of volunteers.

“‘ _Cos_ , Harry," Eggsy huffs, taking one of his hands and dragging it down to his chest, and Harry can feel his beating heart much more fervently than before. “Cross my heart and hope to die.”

Harry breathes out, “I’d rather you didn't.”

“Well, then hurry up and work on it or I’ll snap my own neck, I swear to--”

Harry flinches, taking a step back and pulling his hands away immediately.

Almost falling back off balance, Eggsy yelps. “Wot!”

It’s as if Harry’s been submerged in icy waters, and he hides his burning hands in his pockets. “I will literally pay for you to get a professional massage by an experienced masseuse. Let me make a few calls--”

“No. Gross. I don't wanna be touched, that’s weird," Eggsy blurts out in a rush, mulish. “Plus, knowing you it’ll be a few hundred quid in a posh spa hotel. No thanks.” He stands, making his way to the fridge, taking out a frozen item to smack onto his shoulder. “I’m fine.”

Harry averts his gaze, trying to find his composure and clear his thoughts. He finds solace in his briefcase, pulling out a folder. “I have updated the lesson plans and--Why are you wearing that?” He can’t help but ask.

Eggsy frowns down at himself. “Oh, err, the dance competition thing." He actually sounds embarrassed. “Trying out costumes.”

“...Right." Harry doesn't know whether or not to believe him. “Lessons…” He trails off.

“Is that what you’re here for? My mum should be home soon," Eggsy mumbles. “You teaching her how to dance, right?”

“She’s been doing well so far. She’ll do fine in Lestrade’s party as it is.”

“...You ain’t gonna dance with her on your date?" Eggsy keeps his eyes on the revised lesson plans.

“No. It’s simply dinner. A nice dinner that would be a different experience for your mother. She’ll learn a thing or two for future scenarios.”

“Huh." Eggsy bites at his still healing lip, glancing at him before staring back at the paper. “Penmanship? Really?”

“It would be good to work on your signature. It’s one of the little things that people can judge you on.”

Eggsy raises an eyebrow, pressing the frozen food harder on his shoulder. “You saying my writing’s shit?”

Tamping down a smile, Harry subconsciously brushes a thumb on his left wrist. “I don’t mind it. Other people might.”

“M’kay."

“Yes?" It’s odd how nervous he is, almost as if he’s seeking his approval. It’s absurdly pathetic.

“Mmm, whatever you say, Harry." He switches to ice his other shoulder and glances at Harry’s briefcase. “Is that it?”

“...Is that what? There’s more lessons on the other side."

Eggsy doesn’t look at him, flipping to the back page. “...You didn't bring food or nothing?”

Harry blinks. "...W..." Feeling as if he’s misstepped, he feels like he should be breaking out into cold sweat. “...Would you like me to--”

“--Nope.”

“Shall that be a...routine?” Harry finds himself persisting. “Would you like me to bring food every time I come over?”

Eggsy stares at him from beneath his lashes and Harry wants to leave immediately, but Eggsy shrugs. “Wouldn’t want to trouble you or anything.”

“Nonsense. You’re taking the lessons. It’s the least I can do.”

“But only if I’m good?"

Harry tilts his head. “Pardon?”

Biting at the inside of his cheek, Eggsy’s gaze is evasive. “You give me stuff--in _reasonable_ numbers--if I’m good, you’ll feed me and all that. But what if I ain’t? You gonna let me starve?”

It’s Harry's turn to stare. “You--your dramatics are truly one of a kind. Absolutely preposterous--”

“Hey, I’m just making sure. Rules and guidelines and all that.”

Mildly incensed, Harry takes out his wallet. “Call for takeaway. Whatever you’d like.”

Eggsy gawks. “Oh my god, I was just asking, I wasn't serious--”

“Do it, or I will," Harry mildly suggests. “Your mother will be home soon.” It’s the only thing he could think of to accelerate the process, because Eggsy cares about his mother--but it also has the side-effect of changing Eggsy's demeanour back to sullen.

“Right.”

Harry sighs and waits for him to finish the phone call. He takes the chance to observe him. Clinically. Eggsy’s shoulders were genuinely tense and strained and Harry finds it very suspicious. He gives up, testing, “What were you doing that you hurt your shoulders so badly?”

Eggsy looks him in the eye. “Work.”

“...Work?”

“Books, you know. Piles of them. They get heavy. Plus the dancing. Athletic stuff, Haz.”

As endearing as that is, Harry narrows his eyes. That kind of muscle strain is usually the result of a constant prolonged action, requiring endurance and strength against weight and time. Frankly it’s the kind that reminds Harry of basic training, whether it be the Army or Kingsman. He’s had to jog for _hours_ with a bergen on his back, weighing around twenty-five kilogrammes, sometimes heavier.

Eggsy insists on being oblivious, humming around as they set the table. “What about you?”

It catches Harry off-guard. “What about me?”

Eggsy pours himself a glass of water, downing half of it in one go. “How was work?”

“...More eventful than the usual," Harry eventually allows, taking Eggsy’s offered water, trying not to feel self-conscious. If he drinks from the very same spot, it’s simply coincidence.

“Oh?”

“Mmm," Harry hums, willing the jarring flush of warmth to go away.

“D’you fuck anybody?”

Harry chokes on water. “Pardon?”

“You said before, that you were going to--”

“It was a hypothetical situation," Harry announces. “Also, I was preoccupied.”

 _Perhaps next time_ , He doesn't say. _Definitely_.

“...M’kay."

Thankfully, there’s a knock on the door and Harry can take a calming breath. Eggsy returns with the food, and Harry considers bothering him again about his injury. There’s something unsettling about it.

“Will you let me accompany you to the doctor’s?”

“What?”

“Your shoulders. Won't you be better off knowing its severity?”

In the background, someone’s putting a key into the doorknob, and Eggsy actually looks nervous. “It’s probably just a strain.”

Harry wants to argue, but Michelle is already in the flat.

“Oh! Wow--Hart.” She hides the plastic bag behind her. “Food. Eggsy.”

“Err, yeah," Eggsy huffs. “Welcome home, mum."

Harry clears his throat. “I was simply on my way out.”

It’s subtle, the way Eggsy’s elbow digs into his ribs. “Don’t be ridiculous. Why don’t you two have a chat?”

“Ah, well," Michelle’s makes excuses to go to stop by her room, presumably to drop off the bag, and Harry tries not to worry about her odd behaviour.

With her gone, he takes the chance to negotiate, murmuring into Eggsy’s ear, “Doctor’s."

Eggsy’s expression is long-suffering. “I’m calling you ‘daddy’, I swear to god. Don't think I won’t.”

Harry purses his lips. “Thirteen.”

Somehow catching his meaning, Eggsy gawks. Despite his bafflement, he keeps his voice low. “Oi, how is that bad behaviour?”

“It’s offensive to me.”

“How is it offensive?" Eggsy complains, turning the frozen pack over and pressing it down harder on his shoulder. “That’s what you act like--Plus, I’m pretty sure my mum’s just bought a dress for your _date_ , so there.”

Before Harry can protest, Michelle’s out of her bedroom.

Suddenly, something buzzes, but no one moves to answer any of their devices. Harry pointedly arches an eyebrow at Eggsy, who’s starting to walk backwards.

“You two go on ahead with dinner, I’ll be right back. Enjoy yourselves.”

He moves to disappear out the front door.

Michelle chuckles. “It’s probably his girlfriend.”

Harry purses his lips. "Mmm."

"Speaking of which," Michelle ventures, glancing at the front door, "His face. The bruise and the lip. You've seen it, yeah?"

Harry nods, neutral. "Yes."

"He told me he was a bit enthusiastic with his girl--and that's how that happened. Would you believe it, if that's what he told you?" Michelle's looking at him, waiting. There's that familiar guilt swirling in his gut. The mere prospect of actively lying straight to Michelle's face is something he absolutely despises doing.

"It's plausible," He cautions, uneasy at how she seems to relax slightly at his answer. "What do you think it could be?"

"Well, I'm just worried, you know, if he's caught up in some trouble. I know I haven't been around as much, I've been going through the final rounds of interviews for that new job and I'm still doing over-time for the one I still have," Michelle tells him, rather contrite, "But I just--I want to make sure that we have enough for at least his first year for uni, you know, including accommodation and--" She grips at the backrest of the chair and Harry's genuinely uncomfortable. "--I have to make a choice and it's difficult to balance sometimes, making sure that I can provide for him while keeping watch at the same time--"

"Michelle," Harry tries to be assuring, "He has at least two years before uni, and that's if he doesn't take a gap year--"

"Oh god, a gap year, you're right!" She despairs, "I have to take that into account too--How much would it cost, d'you think?"

Clearly, he's made it worse. Harry wants to facepalm. "Michelle--"

"--Where would he go? What would he want to do? Has he talked to you about anything?"

"Not yet."

"How are the lessons?" She asks, trying not to show her apprehension.

"It's--We haven't truly...gotten to it yet," Harry admits, and he regrets it immediately. Because he can see it now, the source of her nerves. Michelle would rather Eggsy spend his time with Harry versus out into the unknown. It's a well-known fact that Eggsy's job is only two hours. Despite the excuse of being with Yvonne Jansen, realistically there's more hours unaccounted for. And frankly Harry worries about it now as well, considering the state of Eggsy's shoulders which _isn't_ from the fight a few days ago.

Michelle approves of the lessons because Harry can keep an eye on Eggsy, because Harry is supposed to be a trustworthy adult, a father-figure and--

 _She trusts you,_ A dark part of him muses. _Little does she know..._

Harry swallows and tamps down his nauseating disgust. He can already see himself breaking his own promises about staying away and staying on the sidelines. At least until Eggsy can prove that he won't be getting into too much trouble unattended. Which is a bit ridiculous. Eggsy's a teenager but he is, in some ways, responsible.

Except that he's volatile--impulsive and rash, especially when emotions are high and he's bitter and spiteful, inciting and attracting trouble.

Michelle frowns at his silence, questioning.

Harry sighs. "I'll--Tomorrow, hopefully," He tells her. "If he has time. We will go over some of them."

 _I'll keep an eye on him_ , The message goes unsaid, _I'll keep him out of trouble._

Slowly but surely, there's a small smile on Michelle's face, relieved and pleased.

 _He promised to be good_ , Harry doesn't tell her. _He promised to be good._

 

\--

 

“Nah," Eggsy murmurs with something like regret, staring out the balcony a floor below their flat. “Sorry, Cav. Something just came up today.”

“ _Never feel bad about it, Gary._ ”

“But I can’t tomorrow, either." He rubs at his shoulder. “I think I was overdoing it last night.”

“ _Nonsense, you did fine._ ”

Eggsy huffs, feeling strangely unsettled. “Nah, guv. Like, I mean my shoulder and everything. It’s a bit, I dunno, strained? It’s probably nothing," He hastily says.

“ _Goodness, shall we go have it checked out? I feel quite responsible._ ”

“Nah, c’mon." Eggsy tries for a bit of laughter. He resorts to first name usage. “Really, Henry, it should be fine. I’ll even text you in a few days.”

“ _Maybe we shouldn’t have let you do the intermediate maneuvers. Very irresponsible of us. How we devolved from boxing to wrestling, we’ll never know._ ”

“Oi, you might have wrecked me the other night, but swear down, the next time it’ll be the opposite," Eggsy mutters, rubbing the goosebumps off his skin without too much movement. His shoulders are still pure fucking agony.

Cavendish laughs. “ _You’ll be behaved and sitting on the sidelines next time. If you manage to talk your way out of it, rest assured we’ll be very gentle._ ”

“Hah! Gentle, my arse. You’ve got some hidden depths, you. But so do I. Just wait til the next time, watch," Eggsy challenges. He can't wait to take him down, preferably when he's not in pain anymore.

“ _Always so cheeky, Gary._ ”

“Well, you like it," He carelessly snipes back, “So--" Eggsy freezes, doing a double-take at Harry near the stairs.

Shit.

His expression is completely blank and-- _what the fuck_. And here Eggsy had thought that the goosebumps were from the chilly air of sundown.

Harry begins to take a few steps towards him.

Shit.

 

\--

 

Harry is doing his best to remain absolutely calm, because it could truly be a misunderstanding. All of it.

But Eggsy’s behaviour is shifty. Almost as if he’s been caught, guilty of something. The only missing attribute is defensiveness and deflection, which--

“What are you doing here? You’re supposed to be having dinner with my mum," Eggsy complains, and he must think he’s subtle in hiding the mobile he was talking into a few seconds ago.

It’s odd, how Harry’s senses have gone hypersensitive, noticing every single thing as if he’s on a mission and Eggsy's the deceitful mark he has to figure out.

It must be unsettling, being on the receiving end of Harry's stare. He knows it's the one he’s used in enhanced interrogation sessions before. A part of him is protesting that such a tactic should never be used on Eggsy, but the need to assess the danger is too strong.

Eggsy raises his head, holding his stare. “What?”

“Do you have any idea what it sounded like?”

“‘It’ _what_ sounded like?”

Harry purses his lips. It seems that he’s going to be subjected to this game after all.

“That conversation you’ve just had on the mobile you’re trying to hide.”

Eggsy blinks, appearing to think back on it. “Oh.”

“Yes, ‘oh’--Is that a new mobile?” Harry finally questions. He doesn't want to have to take it from him to discern the truth. That’s a breach of privacy. Harry doesn't want to be that kind of overbearing miserable man. However, this isn't an urge brought on by a possessive streak regarding romantic and-or sexual interest. It’s a matter of safety. He’s very suspicious as it is.

But Eggsy only pulls out the chrome and gold Nokia from his back pocket and raises an eyebrow. It doesn't really settle Harry's nerves.

Eggsy bursts out in abrupt laughter. “Oh, come on. Just because something sounds and seems incriminating doesn't exactly mean it is. What, did I sound like a rent boy, is that it?”

“For the lack of a better word," Harry allows.

Eggsy guffaws, but his smiling scoff turns sharp at the edges. “What, so you think I’m pretty enough to be paid for my... _companionship_?”

Harry goes still, and Eggsy waits, staring.

Cold dread worms its way in. The more they hold each other’s gaze, the more the terrifying possibility seems plausible. Does Eggsy know? Has everything been a cruel test?

Harry’s heart pounds heavy at the thought, and his mouth opens to speak, but nothing comes out.

Eggsy’s lips thin. “Yeah." He looks away to the balcony. “Thought so. Who’d ever want me, right?”

The relief comes at a price. “Eggsy, you have to know that there are people out there who are willing to take advantage of you. You must be carefu--”

“Yeah?" Eggsy chuckles, “Where they at? I could use to be taken advantage of.”

Appalled and disgusted at the mere idea, Harry grits his teeth. “You don’t mean that. Don’t be reckless. If there is anything you need, anything you want, I’ll do my best to give it to you.”

Eggsy raises his eyebrows. “Yeah?”

Harry purses his lips. “You’re the one who sets me a low-numbered limit when I offer to buy you things.”

Eggsy gawks. “Oh my god--Of course I set a bloody limit, you--" He lowers his voice to a hissing whisper, and despite it all, Harry appreciates his attempt at discretion from the neighbours. “You just can’t buy me a dozen things in one go! That's just w--Where would I put them all? Come on, let’s be real."

Harry sighs. As true as that is, it doesn't make it less annoying. Regardless, he gets straight to the point. “Who is ‘Henry’?"

“No one," Eggsy insists, “He’s just some nice bloke offering to help me out.”

That whole sentence is suspicious. “Help you out with what?”

“Self-defence.”

“...Self-defence," Harry repeats, flat.

“Yeah.”

“I’ve seen you fight. You’re fine on your own," He tells him shortly.

Eggsy blinks. “Really?" He looks as if he’s trying not to preen.

Harry rolls his eyes. “Don’t take that as an encouragement to start fights. Self-defence is just that: self- _defence_.”

“M’kay.” That pout is the bane of Harry’s existence. “Anyway, that’s what it was. Got a bit too rough last night, I suppose--I insisted,” Eggsy assures him. While it all could be a valid truth, Harry is still unsettled. Perhaps he’ll never really be satisfied. When it comes to Eggsy, Harry finds that his own responses reach far beyond logical reason, including his overprotective streak--Which, he never really thought he possessed to begin with.

“Why didn’t you come to me?" He manages to sound casual about it, he likes to think.

Eggsy gapes. “You? You get disappointed when I get into fights--”

“Self-defence is different.”

Observing Harry carefully, Eggsy bites at his lip and Harry grinds his teeth, willfully keeping his hands by his sides. “Stop biting your lip, it’ll take longer to heal.”

Eggsy huffs. “So you’ll teach me then?”

“If you’re good,” Harry compromises. At this point, he’s simply desperate to get him as far away as possible from this suspicious person until Harry has done his research.

Eggsy narrows his eyes. “For reals?”

“Why is it so difficult to believe?” Harry exasperates.

“I mean it. No babying around or nothing," Eggsy accuses.

“What does that even mean?”

“It means you gotta pull no punches. You gonna hold me down when you need to?" Eggsy challenges and Harry’s hit by the mental image. He keeps the panic at bay.

“We’ll talk it out another time, your mother must be wondering where you are. She’s having dinner alone as it is. I can’t stay.”

Harry walks him up and to his flat, quiet. Eggsy can't seem to help but question him. “Why?”

For a moment, he considers playing oblivious, but he generates his answer carefully.

“While I don’t doubt your lack of interest in older men, it doesn't mean there is nothing to worry about. The opposite cannot be said for this ‘Henry’ fellow. It's not that I don't trust your judgement. Please, take no offence. You’re clever and many ways brilliant. But the fact of the matter is you’re still young. You have much to learn. There are things you can’t easily determine. There are those who would seek to take advantage--”

“Yeah, yeah, okay, I got it," Eggsy waves him off, absently rubbing at his shoulder. But he’s biting the inside of his cheek and he has that look in his eyes.

Despite Harry's efforts, he’s offended him.

Harry sighs. “Eggsy--”

“No, yeah, I get it. I’m a _kid_ \--G’night, Harry.”

Harry’s left to stare at the door he’s disappeared into for a few seconds.

Of course.

Nothing is ever easy when it comes to Eggsy Unwin.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

** IV **

 

Eggsy's gonna wreck him, he swears it. Fucking--

It’s late and he really should be asleep, but he’s been in bed for two hours and all he’s done is stare into the dark and think. His shoulders still hurt so he can't move. He hasn't even turned his head even a little bit as much as he wants to. That’s how bad it is.

So that doesn't really help his mood. Not one bit. He can only hope it’ll be gone tomorrow.

For now, he stews in frustrated agitation.

The day after tomorrow is Harry's date with his mum. Despite Harry's seemingly genuine assurances, the worst case scenarios take over Eggsy in the dark. It happens in so many different ways, and it’s driving him insane.

What if Harry falls in love with her? What if she falls deeper for him?

Why the fuck did Eggsy encourage this shit?

What the fu--Oh. Right. He wanted her to be happy.

If worst comes to worst, will Eggsy cry about it? No. He doesn't think so. He _likes_ to think so.

He might do something reckless though.

Because what the fuck, does he really know Harry?

 _Yes, I do_ , a part of him immediately argues, and he tamps it down.

Yeah, he knows a few things about Harry, but he doesn't mind most of them. They’re mostly _positive_. And that fucks him up.

Like, yeah, Harry’s a bit odd, and so is his house. He’s seemed to have lived alone all this time, and he has a dead dog stuffed in his loo. There’s lots of insects displayed in his house and there’s a bunch of paintings and sketches on the walls that Eggsy is sure isn't made by Harry. It’s almost like clutter, but his house is mostly clean. If anything, he’s a _bit_ of a hoarder, but so what?

It's classic serial killer behaviour, but it’s not as if Harry’s hurting anybody.

 _Anyway_ , he’s getting a bit off track here. The point is, that’s about all the negative stuff there is.

And yeah, okay, Harry _has_ hurt some people. Harry _can_ be violent. But it’s with a purpose, and it’s done with a clean kind of grace mixed with impressive skills.

What’s so bad about that?

And yeah, Harry’s a liar. A good one. But somehow Eggsy just knows anyway, so maybe Harry purposely lies in a lower standard. When Harry lies, it’s mostly about his job. So again, that’s not too bad.

Yeah, Harry can be annoying, meddling in things he shouldn't be. He can be a hypocrite, and he can be really, _really_ embarrassing.

But that’s...nothing.

And that’s what’s very worrying.

Eggsy wants to see Harry at his _worst_.

Eggsy wants to know what he’s _really_ capable of. Because if he’s gonna be part of their lives, with Eggsy’s mum and all that, Eggsy has to be prepared.

His stomach churns just thinking about it. But he stands by his inexplicable need.

He wants to know what Harry's like when he’s _raging_ mad. The only time Eggsy’s really seen anything close to that was when his underage arse was about to go out for drinks and he had been ignoring Harry for days, generally being a vindictive little shit. Harry had physically dragged him back into the flat and slammed him against the wall. There was this look in his eyes which in hindsight would probably put the fear of a fate worse than death into anybody else. Suppose Eggsy was too stupid and sprung to feel terrified as he should have.

As wild as that was, Eggsy still feels that Harry was holding back even then. That was simply a _glimpse_.

Eggsy wants to know what he’s like when he lashes out. He wants to know how Harry could hurt them--even as the thought passes through his head, a part of him protests that Harry wouldn't, but that's not the point. The issue here is not whether or not he will, the issue here is that he _can_. Anyone has that potential, most especially Harry.

Eggsy wants to know his limits.

Eggsy wants to know his breaking point.

Eggsy wants to know his darkest sides, his vices, his filthy desires--the kind that everybody has. Eggsy would know a thing or two about that.

The Second Theory nags at him, relentless. As much as he wants to test it out, it’s clear that Harry sees him as as kid.

But that only makes him more bitter, more vindictive. It spurs him on.

 _Operation: Kill With Kindness_ , It repeats in his head, over and over until he finally falls asleep.

 

»»

 

Something’s vibrating non-stop. It gets so annoying that Eggsy forgets about his shoulders. It isn't until he’s blindly grabbing at his bedside table that he's suddenly overpowered by the sharp pain. He grunts, but if he’s honest with himself it sounds more like a whimper as he slowly drags the mobile close to his ear.

“‘ello?" He manages after a few seconds.

“ _...Eggsy?_ "

It’s Quinlan. At least, it _sounds_ like Quinlan.

“Bloody hell," Eggsy blurts, trying not to let on about the overwhelming hope in his chest. It’s caught him off-guard. “What the fuck?”

“ _Yes. I know, it’s--I’m...I’ve been away. From my mobile._ ”

Eggsy’s mouth wobbles and that is _not_ on. What the fuck?

“ _Jesus_ , I thought you died. I mean, I thought you abandoned me too but--It’s--It’s so good to hear your voice, mate.”

If Quinlan brings up how his voice is thick and everything, Eggsy’s gonna teleport to Scotland and mess up his damn hair, swear down.

Quinlan clears his throat. “ _Likewise_.”

“What’s wrong you? You sound tired as hell," Eggsy bursts out. “Tell me everything! What’s happened?”

“ _Nothing. Just--took on the volunteer project for the summer, as it were. That’s why I was MIA_.”

It’s like six in the morning and he’s in absolute pain, but Eggsy doesn't give a shit. “What’s this project about?"

“ _Nothing of interest--Taking care of an old couple’s farmhouse while they go on a holiday. They barely have any signal. So, I didn't even bother, I just left my mobile back at my flat. But I’m back now. I’ve only just heard your voicemail._ ”

At the memory of his pathetic messages, Eggsy’s ridiculously embarrassed. “Ah, that’s wild. I can’t imagine you without your tech stuff.”

“ _Enough about me. What’s the problem?_ ”

“Huh? What problem?" Eggsy plays oblivious. “Did you get in touch with Roxy?”

“ _She’s off training somewhere--You know how she is. Wastes no time in improving on something_.”

“Yeah, good old Roxy. Bless her," Eggsy sighs. “Miss her though.”

“ _We’ll be there for your birthday. It’s only a few weeks._ ”

“Oh." Eggsy swallows. “Yeah. Right. So that’s still on then?" He cautiously checks.

“ _Don’t be ridiculous, of course it is--Sixteen, that’s an important number. Also_ ,” He adds, a bit begrudging, “ _If I was honest, it’s just an excuse for all of us to meet again._ ”

Eggsy can’t help the soft and no doubt _stupid_ smile on his face. “...Cool.”

“ _Now, how are things?”_

“...Well, suppose I took on a project of my own," Eggsy begins.

“ _Oh? Is that so?_ ”

“It’s only for the summer too," He hastily adds, “Should be done soon. Just one more thing to be done.”

“ _What’s it about?_ ”

Eggsy bites his tongue. “Can’t tell you much. Just...helping out kids--Charity. Sort of.”

 _“Mmm, that’s different. It would look nice on your CV, I suppose. How are things with your Mr. Hart, I meant?_ ”

Mood soured, Eggsy sighs. “It’s--nothing."

“ _Weren’t you under the false impression that he was dating your mother?_ ”

“There’s nothing false about it, I mean, he’s going out with her tomorrow night. It’s a date," Eggsy tells him, bitter. He falters, puzzled. “Wait, did I tell you about this?”

Quinlan hums, seemingly non-committal. “ _It didn't take much to catch on despite your hysteria._ ”

The memory shames him. It spurs Eggsy on and he grinds his teeth in agitation. “He sees me as a kid, Quin. It’s good you called, I was just about to plan something stupid.”

“ _...Does me calling actually stop this initiative or…?_ ”

“I’d like to say that it does. But with me, you never know--Hell, even I don't.”

“ _Well, at least you're self-aware now. Fractionally. Getting there, hopefully._ ”

“What do you mean?”

“ _Eggsy...you_ do _know that you are actually a ‘kid’?_ "

It takes Eggsy a moment to comprehend this fucking _betrayal_. “Oi, what the fuck? Whose side are you on?”

“ _I’m on yours. That should go without saying, but I’m also objective about situations. Do you remember when you were thirteen?_ ”

“Of course I do, what does have to do with anything?”

“ _Just think back and remember.”_

“Remember what?" He demands, apprehensive.

“ _When you were thirteen, did you think you knew a lot about the world? That you already knew what you needed to? That you could survive with that knowledge?_ ”

Annoyed, Eggsy genuinely thinks about it. It was a time when he was just starting Wetherby, but Eggsy was still pretty smart about life, especially with the way he grew up. “...Yeah.”

“ _You’re fifteen now, turning sixteen. It’s been a while since then._ ”

“Not really," Eggsy finds himself realising. “I mean, it depends. Time is...weird like that. Feels like yesterday, but still--yeah.”

“ _Two to three years,_ " Quinlan supplies, “ _You’ve learned more things, haven't you? Realised things you haven't before, tried and did things you never thought you would, made mistakes, learned from them…_ ” It really isn't a question anymore, and Eggsy feels as if he's on the verge of understanding something he doesn’t want to.

“So what?" Eggsy presses his lips together.

“ _Who would you rather be? Whose experience and insight would you rather have? You at thirteen or you as you are now?_ ”

Eggsy swallows. “...That’s not fair.”

“ _Whether it be a year from now, three or five or ten, you’ll look back and realise just how much you didn't know--Even though you were so very certain you did_.”

“That’s because people grow, Quinlan. They keep growing," Eggsy argues. “It doesn't mean I’m a kid.”

“ _You_ are _a kid,_ " Quinlan tells him, factual. “... _But that doesn't make you less valid. You’re allowed to feel things and make mistakes. You’re only human._ ”

Eggsy’s jaw clenches at the feeling of his throat getting tight.

“ _However, you can't simply use that as an excuse_ not _to think about what you are doing and what the consequences are. We can't be perfect, we are fallible and we will make stupid mistakes that shouldn't have been made in the first place. But that doesn't mean we shouldn't try.”_

For a moment, Eggsy lets himself be buried under the weight of the silence.

“Jesus," He eventually mutters. Weeks of not being in contact with Eggsy and Quinlan's just come back to be philosophical. “I can't believe you just Mufasa’d me.”

There’s a huff on the other end. “ _Remember who you are,_ " Quinlan humours him.

Eggsy softly chortles, but his smile ultimately fades. “He’s never gonna see me other than a kid, is he?”

Quinlan sighs. “ _Eggsy…_ ”

“Just be brutally honest like you always are.”

“ _I--shouldn’t meddle into--ugh--_ " Quinlan grunts, genuinely frustrated.

“Come on," Eggsy urges, ready for death.

“ _He’s_ old _, Eggsy,_ " Quinlan argues. Before Eggsy can be defensive about it, Quinlan battles on. “ _It doesn’t matter how much you grow, he’ll always be older than you_.”

Eggsy’s heart stops.

“ _When you were born, he was probably around thirty already. Just think about it, please--You’re only fifteen now but doesn't it disgust you, the idea that someone who isn't even born yet might be someday in your place lusting after you?_ ”

Eggsy’s stomach sinks.

“ _Imagine waiting another fifteen years for a child to be born_.”

Swallowing doesn’t keep the nausea away, and Eggsy finds that he’s blinking really fast. But he’s not going to cry. He’s almost sixteen, for fuck’s sake, he’s not gonna cry for anything. He grinds his teeth.

“...It _is_ disgusting, isn't it?" Eggsy manages and chuckles, ignoring the hoarseness of his own voice. “I’m disgusting.”

“... _Shit. That’s not--_ ”

“But I--" He stops, unable to speak any further. Eggsy tries, he tries, but nothing comes out.

“ _I’m just trying to make you understand from his--what_ could _be his point of view, I don’t--_ "

“No, it’s true. It’s disgusting," Eggsy insists. “And it’s not fair," He scoffs, suddenly rushing out, “It’s not fair because sometimes he looks at me and I think--" His vocal chords stop working again and it’s pathetic, _he’s_ pathetic and--He sits up abruptly, suppressing the grunt from the pain of his shoulders.

It only makes him angrier.

“ _Eggsy, no--_ ”

“It’s not fair," He hisses, despairing, “He doesn't get to walk into my life, he doesn’t get to _exist_ and--” ~~_ruin me_~~ “I know it’s not his fault. Rationally, I know that. I know that. But I don't know what to do ‘cos I--" His breath hitches.

“ _Eggsy, calm down--_ ”

“He shouldn't be so nice then!" He harshly whispers into the mobile, gnashing his teeth, terrified of his mum hearing, of her figuring it out, that he wants to ruin her chances of being happy as well. “He shouldn't--He shouldn't be around me," Eggsy says, hushed and desperate. “He shouldn’t make me feel like--”

“-- _Eggsy, you’ll be just as upset as you are now if he suddenly disappears out of your life--_ “

Eggsy laughs, short and hysterical. “Yeah-- _Yeah_ , I--I lose either way.” He laughs again and stops just as sudden. “I’m gonna ruin him," Eggsy decides, vehement, “I’m gonna ruin him right back, I _swear_ it.”

All the things that plagued him last night--Eggsy has to know.

Harry was right. They have to end this once and for all. 

 

 


	28. 27

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Despite his attempts, Eggsy fails a lot
> 
> until...well...
> 
> (desperation is dangerous + Tru HELL is an Eggsy scorned, bye)

 

 

From the moment he cut off his call with Quinlan, Eggsy has been racking his brains for everything he could do to fuck Harry up. It may have been arse o’clock, but he’s fueled by bitter rage.

When he hears his mum leave for work, he leaves his room and moves to the sofa to be able to visualise it more. It’s where they’d do the lessons, isn’t it? It’s not like he can find a good enough reason to coax Harry into the bedroom.

Yet.

God, the more he thinks about it, the more stupid and delusional he feels.

He doesn’t even know when Harry is going to come over. Is he even coming today?

Eggsy lies back on the sofa, thinking far too much too fast that it’s practically gibberish.

As minutes go by, even the anger can't keep him up anymore and he dozes off, unknowing.

 

\--»

 

Harry gets the call when he enters the pastry shop. He considers not answering it. Quite frankly, he doubts it’s Eggsy. Also, the shop’s only been open for five minutes but people will come flocking in, Harry is sure of it. It’s a Thursday morning and people are bound to stop by for a quick breakfast on the way to work.

Answering phone calls in public spaces, especially small shops, is something that is very, _very_ rude. Harry wouldn’t want to be caught doing such a thing that he personally would snap someone’s neck for if he had his way.

But then again, suppose one time wouldn’t hurt.

“Yes?” He keeps his volume reasonable. Unlike some people.

“ _Galahad_ ,” Quinlan begins, “ _Where are you?_ ”

Harry frowns. Quinlan’s not one for small talk. “Why? Is there anywhere I should be?”

“ _No. Just--_ ” There’s a long pause. “ _Be careful._ ”

Eyes scanning the area, Harry mildly murmurs into the mobile, “Is this about the incident up north?”

“ _No. Are you meeting with Eggsy today?_ ”

The line moves and the server meets his gaze. Harry politely points at the oven-baked pancake. “I might be--If he’s free for lessons.” He stops. “Why? Is there something wrong?”

“ _Tread carefully._ ”

Before Harry can even ask, the call drops.

He purses his lips. Perhaps Eggsy’s in a mood again. More than the usual and likely _worse_ if the issue of his shoulders persisted overnight.

But that part shouldn't be much of a complication, Harry had made a quick stop at Tesco earlier.

On the other hand--

“Excuse me, might I add another pancake? Those two as well. And that right there. Perfect. Thank you very much.”

 

 

»

 

Taking Quinlan’s advice, Harry is very cautious upon entering the flat.

The only light in the space comes from the windows through the curtains, and it’s barely past eight in the morning, so it isn’t too bright at all. What’s surprising, however, is Eggsy’s quiet breathing as he seemingly sleeps on the sofa.

Harry frowns. Has Eggsy been sleeping there all night? That would not be good for his spine, more importantly his shoulders.

Staring at Eggsy’s slumbering form, Harry finds himself silently placing the box and the briefcase on the coffee table. There’s a certain kind of unease that nags at him at the back of his mind, telling him to leave the space altogether. But that’s simply a terrible position to leave Eggsy in.

Harry takes a quiet breath--and falters.

Gripping the Tesco bag, he moves for the kitchen instead, opening the fridge and the freezer to place his newly bought items in. After he finishes, his fingers tap on the fridge handle, stalling. He even takes the chance to wash his hands before filling up a jug and grabbing a glass. He stops by the cupboards for a juice-box and returns to the living area, setting them all on the coffee table.

“Eggsy," He exhales softly.

Nothing happens. Harry’s hand reaches before it stills, fingers halfway to Eggsy’s ankle. He sighs, partly sitting on the armrest of the sofa. He feels stuck. Such simple courses of action and Harry can’t even choose. This is preposterous.

A newspaper on the floor catches his attention. Before he can even reach for it, Eggsy’s legs are shifting, stretching out, the tips of his toes prodding at Harry’s thigh.

Harry doesn’t even know when he’s slid down from the armrest to the actual cushions, Eggsy’s feet on his lap.

“Eggsy,” He ventures quietly, “Breakfast will go cold.”

Surprisingly enough, Eggsy replies, grunting, “Mmm. Can’t really move. Shoulders hurt.”

“That might be because you seemingly slept on the sofa,” Harry points out, not unkind.

Eyes still closed, Eggsy reaches a hand out. Harry blinks at it. The way Eggsy’s clearly trying to hide the pain in his expression must be what makes him decide. When their hands touch, it catches Harry off-guard when Eggsy grips hard.

“You ready?”

Harry is at a loss, his focus on their joined hands. But it’s instinct how he grips back and keeps his hold when Eggsy suddenly sits up, significantly closing the distance between them. Reality _shifts_ as Harry stares at him. With Eggsy’s eyes still closed, he is granted that luxury.

They’re too close. Faces barely a foot away. Harry is hypersensitive to every little thing. The clench of his jaw, the furrow of his brows, the pained noise he’s trying to tamp down. Their hands are still touching. Harry’s eyes helplessly track the way Eggsy swallows. Eggsy’s shallow breaths are too loud in his ears. Eggsy’s _scent_ \--

Harry finds himself getting heady from the sheer proximity of his very presence.

It’s dangerous.

 _Intoxicating_.

Eggsy lets out a hiss, leaning down to rest his forehead on Harry’s shoulder.

Forcing himself to look at the ceiling instead, Harry swallows. He gets enough of his wits back to realise what's putting him off-kilter. This whole scenario is strange. Especially considering how they left things off yesterday. Eggsy had seemed upset.

Perhaps the pain is too much for Eggsy’s pride and petulance. That must be it.

“Breakfast, Eggsy," Harry manages.

“Mmm, no," He slurs, seemingly pressing closer. “Can’t move. Tired too.”

The fact that Eggsy’s saying no to _food_ is worrying. Harry’s mouth moves against Eggsy’s hair. “Would you like me to call a professional over for your shoulders?”

“They do house-calls now?” Eggsy mutters in reply, clutching at Harry’s hand when he tries to pull away.

“Of course they do.”

“Yeah? How’d you know? You call them over at yours, Harry?” There’s something bitter and goading about it and Harry can only roll his eyes.

“No, Eggsy.”

“What, you don’t like happy endings--” Eggsy suddenly grunts at Harry’s left hand kneading on his shoulder. Honestly, Harry didn’t even know how that got there. But Eggsy’s sighing and melting under his touch and it’s for medical purposes, that’s why Harry allows himself to continue.

“Don’t be crude, Eggsy.”

Eggsy whines, somehow shifting closer, bent knee partly on Harry’s lap. Harry stops in his ministrations and reaches over to pour a glass of water. Frankly, he’d like to drink it for himself. The room is rather stifling. But he hands the glass over to Eggsy.

“Water. Then breakfast. Come on,” Harry coaxes. Eggsy still has his eyes closed and Harry’s forced to touch the rim of the glass to his lips. He expects Eggsy to take over and hold it, but Eggsy’s mouth only parts to drink and what could Harry possibly do but accommodate him?

Eggsy grunts his thanks when he finishes, going back to hide against Harry’s shoulder, words muffled. “M’tired. Lemme sleep. Maybe the pain’ll go away.”

Harry sighs, dreading what he’ll have to do. He reaches for the box, opening it. The utensils are settled on the far side. Aiming for it causes him to move considerably, making Eggsy complain in pain.

Harry sighs again.

“My hands are clean," He feels the need to announce. “I've just washed it.”

“Mhm," Eggsy humours him, barely audible.

Harry breaks a piece off the oven-baked pancake. Ignoring his own heartbeat pounding in his ears, he lightly presses it against Eggsy's mouth.

“Ngh?" Eggsy's brows furrow, but he doesn't even open his eyes as he opens his mouth to take it in.

 _Jesus_.

Despite it all, there’s a bit of irritation at how unsafe Eggsy’s being. He should at least see what he’s eating. What if it was someone else? What if it was laced with something?

Eggsy hums as he chews the last of it, pleased. It almost sounds like a moan.

 _Christ_.

“Mmm. More," He lazily demands.

Harry huffs. “You’re terribly spoiled.”

“Am not--My shoulders hurt. My hands are connected to my arms. Arms are connected to shoulders--It’s practical.”

_Yes. Yes, it is._

And so Harry feeds him some more, failing in trying not to look.

Head resting on Harry’s shoulder, Eggsy's expression is content, even as his mouth brushes against Harry’s fingers. Because Harry occasionally fails in not pulling his fingers away when there’s nothing left to hold.

Harry fails in many things.

Like tamping down the feeling of absolute pleasure derived from such actions. Feeding Eggsy by hand is... _fulfilling_. It’s such a bloody _honour_. It’s inexplicable. It’s absurd.

Harry wants to do it for the rest of his life.

A jolt of shock goes through him when Eggsy’s tongue touches the tips of his fingers. And he has to pull away then, to avert his gaze to the ceiling.

“We’ve much to do today," Harry manages, pulling away to single-handedly stab a straw through the juice-box. “The lessons, I mean. However, with your shoulders as they are, there are a few we can't get to.”

“What are we doing then?”

“Suppose we could begin with social constructs.” Harry holds out the juice-box, the straw lightly grazing Eggsy's lips. 

Eggsy still doesn't open his eyes at the intrusion and only blindly mouths at the straw to drink. “Mmm, get me more of that chocolate croissant though.”

 

 

\--

 

 _Operation: Kill With Kindness_ had a slow tentative start. But it seems to be paying off.

As unexpected at how it all came to begin, it seems to be working.

Eggsy feels like one of those dumb characters from rom-coms who do that thing with the flower petals.

‘ _He loves me, He loves me not._ ’

Being literally fed with Harry’s hand is more exhilarating than it has any right to be. And Eggsy thinks, ‘ _Yeah, there’s something here_.’

But then Harry drones on about the way of the world, casual as he pleases in his Mr. Hart mode. Because that’s what he’s here for after all. The lessons. Because he wants Eggsy to do well. To make his mum proud. To do right by his dad.

And Eggsy bitterly thinks, ‘ _Nah, there isn't anything going on_.’

He wants to suck down Harry's fingers in retaliation. But that might just botch everything. So he manages not to do it.

He’s already partly on Harry’s lap. He doesn’t want to go a step back.

It feels like he’s playing a board game of somesort. With a random roll of the dice, he could easily fuck up all his progress. But then it would hardly be worse than playing scrabble with Quinlan. That shit’s bloody murder. Either way, it’s tempting.

“Hey, if I fall asleep, will you be offended?”

Harry pauses in his lecture about social classes. “Hmm. This could be a trick question. You might want to offend me on purpose.”

Eggsy hides his smile against Harry's padded shoulder. His right hand absently clasps Harry’s, and that's when he realises they're still holding hands.

‘ _He loves me_ ,’ The thought stupidly passes through.

“Well,” Harry begins, “Suppose this would be a good chance to wash my hands again.”

Eggsy frowns at that. Because he doubts they’d curl up back to this position after Harry comes back. It could be just an excuse for him to untangle himself from Eggsy. Because he’s uncomfortable. Because--

‘ _He loves me not._ ’

Eggsy scowls. What the fuck is this gay shit? It was just something that _ironically_ came to be, it wasn't serious or anything. For fuck’s sake.

Annoyed, he pulls away first, laying back down on the sofa with a pained grunt. “Well, go on then.”

There’s a beat before Harry moves to get up.

The water runs in the background. Eggsy opens his eyes, staring at the ceiling.

What the bloody hell is he doing?

When he decided on this, he already knew he was going to question himself. But really, is he trying to seduce him or what? While he’s entertained that idea, his mum crossed his mind and he put it off. It wasn't really part of the plan. But what is he doing if not that?

 _I’m trying to figure out if there’s something there_ , Eggsy argues with himself, _That might involve things that might_ seem _like seduction. And_ then _I can fuck him up, yeah? Gotta start slow._

_Just kiss him already._

_Fuck no. What if he leaves and never comes back?_

_What if he kisses you back?_

_Shit. What if? Mum would be devastated, that’s what._

_Goddamn. You can’t win, can you?_

Eggsy closes his eyes and crosses his arms. Soon enough, Harry’s back. There’s a sound of water being drunk and Eggsy’s mouth annoyingly buzzes with warmth before he hears the glass being refilled.

His feet are suddenly being moved, but before he can even complain, they’re settled back on Harry's lap.

_‘He loves me.’_

_Goddammit. **Stop**._

Annoyed at himself, he pretends to sleep. Even when Harry tries to talk to him. Surprisingly, he doesn’t persist. Eggsy hears the sound of a newspaper being opened and he waits.

But nothing.

Long few minutes pass and Eggsy peeks an eye open.

“Hey, dadd--" He falters on the last syllable, somehow unable to complete the word. One bloody letter and he can’t even say it. Fucking mortifying. He’s never had much of a problem with it before--Well, he had. But not like _this_. He can literally feel the heat on his face. His ears are burning.

Bloody hell.

He braves looking at Harry, but he’s still reading the newspaper as if he hasn't heard anything at all.

At the prospect of being ignored, his shame is eclipsed by offence and annoyance. It spurs him on.

“Daddy," Eggsy finally bursts out. He furiously disregards the shame.

Harry’s eyes are still on the newspaper, but his head turns slightly towards him. “Mmm?”

Eggsy stares and Harry stills, blinking.

_Holy shit._

_Holy shit, holy shit, holy shit_.

Harry didn’t seem to answer to ‘Dad’, but when Eggsy had said ‘ _Daddy_ ’--

It didn't seem conscious either. Jesus fucking Christ, the heat that runs through Eggsy is fucking mental. He shouldn't be getting sprung about this, it’s just embarrassing.

But he wants to reach his foot on Harry’s thigh further to brush against his cock and--

_Do it, do it, do it._

God, he fucking wants to.

“Eggsy," Harry utters, stern. “We’ve talked about this.”

Eggsy whines, hiding behind his hands. “Nuh.”

“When will you stop this nonsense?”

Overcome by more shame and a wave of defensiveness, he glares at him. “What do you mean by nonsense? You started it. When will _you_ stop your nonsense?”

Harry raises his eyebrows, clearly taken aback. “What are you--”

“Why is it so offensive, huh? You’re the one all up on me with your worldly life lessons and the whole ‘caring for my well-being’ shenanigans.”

“Of course I care about you, but that doesn’t mean--”

“You treat me nice, you buy me things, you care about my health, my future and on and on.”

“Yes. I do.”

“Then _there_ ," Eggsy points out, ignoring the embarrassment threatening to choke him, “You’re daddy material.”

Silence sits heavy for a long few seconds.

“...Only for you," says Harry, solemn.

Eggsy blinks. “What.”

“I’m not...like this with anybody else. I don't--" Harry cuts himself off, looking stressed and absently circling his thumb on Eggsy’s ankle.

Eggsy’s pulse starts to pick up and-- "Good. Then you’re mine. No one else’s.”

The unbelievable shit that leaves his mouth makes him want to _die_ , especially when Harry’s lips thin.

But then Harry’s nodding, awkwardly patting at Eggsy’s ankle now. “Yes," He haltingly allows. “Alright.”

He probably doesn't even know what he’s even agreeing to but it doesn't stop Eggsy’s elation.

“Yeah?”

“...Yes---Just...don’t overdo it. Or I’m leaving.”

“No, of course not," Eggsy breathes. He abruptly sits up, ignoring the pain of his shoulders. “Go on. Social constructs, was it?”

“That depends. Are you going to sleep again?” Harry reaches for his briefcase. “Let’s go over the plans and see if there’s anything you’d rather focus on.”

They sit pressed against each other, Eggsy's legs on Harry’s lap as they look over the paper. It’s odd how natural it is. He wonders if Harry feels the same way. Harry hasn’t complained yet. Actually, he looks mildly uncomfortable--but you know what? He always looks like that. So Eggsy’s gonna ignore it.

“Harry, it’s like every time I look at these lesson plans there’s just more and more of them. Swear down.” Eggsy flips to the next page. Because yes, there’s three pages now. It used to be one.

“Yes, well, that’s--”

“And I’ve been meaning to ask, the table etiquette section, we’ve already done this,” Eggsy complains. There seems to be so much. Which is technically good because it gives him an excuse to spend time with Harry. But there are just some things here that he wants out of the way.

“Think of it as a follow-up and review,” Harry tells him, “There are things we haven’t yet covered.”

Eggsy sighs. “Sure, Haz. Whatever you say--About this wine and cheese thing, how’s that gonna work? Are we doing it here? ‘Cos while I wouldn’t put it above you to come over with a box full of wine, that’s just excessive. We’re doing it at home, aren’t we?”

“...That’s...yes. I suppose we are.”

“Cool.” He flips to the last page and pauses. “This is new. ‘ _Culture_ ’? There isn’t anything underneath it other than ‘ _London_ ’. What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It’s still a work in progress but--”

“Jesus, ‘ _Oxbridge_ ’,” Eggsy drawls, “Still on that, aren’t you?” He scoffs. Suddenly remembering something, he stills. He purses his lips and bites the inside of his cheek. “It’s today.”

“What is?”

Eggsy hides his face against Harry’s shoulder, muttering nonsensically.

Harry clicks his tongue, chiding. It’s oddly paternal.

“Results,” Eggsy finally admits, bitter. “From the end of the year exams. It comes in today.”

He doesn’t have to look to know that Harry’s pulling back to stare at him. Eggsy would squirm if his shoulders didn’t hurt. As it is, he just protests, “Don’t look at me.”

“This would be perfect if it weren’t for your shoulders,” says Harry.

“What.”

“Remember our agreement? While it had nothing to do with your results, it would be a perfect time to commemorate it by--”

“Oi, I already used that up,” Eggsy pulls away to face him as he argues, “Honey whisky, remember?”

Harry purses his lips. “I thought that was for your birthday.”

Eggsy squints. “I thought it was for both.”

They stare at each other. Wait, does that mean Harry will actually get him what he asked for? Eggsy decides to backtrack before Harry thinks too much about it. “Wait--What do you mean ‘it would be a perfect time to commemorate it by…’?”

Harry clears his throat, taking the papers from him. “This here, _‘Culture_ ’, is meant to heighten your knowledge and expertise in regards to London.”

Letting that settle in for a moment, Eggsy gawks. “Oi, I’ve been living here my whole life, what do you mean ‘ _heighten my knowledge and expertise_ ’--”

“Yes, but there are things you haven’t got to experience yet. Things you haven’t yet seen or taken a part of. Things you don’t know about, places you’ve never been,” Harry murmurs, averting his gaze.

“...I’m confused. So, what exactly does this involve--”

“I’d like to take you out.”

The silence seems to stretch out forever and Eggsy’s overwhelmed by the surge of excitement because--’ _He loves me, he loves me, he loves me_ ’.

Harry clears his throat again. “This would be useful for the future. Just in case you’ll need to impress someone, one way or another.”

Eggsy dies a little inside. He narrows his eyes. “I’m sure I can find a way to impress them on my own, _one way or another_.”

“ _Professionally_ , Eggsy,” Harry immediately shuts him down, “For business deals or charming diplomats for the sake of world peace. Whatever it is you choose to do with your life.”

Eggsy sniffs. “Cute. You think I’m meant to do something great like that.”

“Of course you are.”

“And if I’m not?” He asks him, serious. “If the results come in and I failed, what then?”

Oddly enough, Harry takes the time to watch him, considering. “Why do you think you’ve failed?”

“‘Cos--It happens, Harry.”

“You don’t believe you put in the effort the way you should have?”

“No, I did!” Eggsy counters, “But just because you try hard doesn’t mean you succeed. People fail. No amount of _‘I believe in you_ ’ is gonna change that. It’s reality.”

Harry watches him in silence. He ultimately nods.

It’s stupid how nervous Eggsy gets. “What?”

“...If you fail, then you fail. You move on. Perhaps try again.”

“...And?” Eggsy prompts, waiting.

Harry shrugs, averting his gaze and murmuring quietly, “The prospect of you failing doesn’t make me...care about you any less, it seems.”

Shit.

 _Operation: Kill With Kindness_ has backfired. Eggsy is weak as fuck. That’s not fair. He can’t even say a damn thing.

“Will the results be by post, by school or by the internet?” Harry asks and Eggsy wants to squirm. “Would you like me to get your laptop and bring it over?”

At the memory of Yvonne’s promise of step-father porn, Eggsy chokes. “Uh-uh. No. I’m not in a hurry. I don’t care, really.”

Harry raises an eyebrow and checks his watch. Eggsy narrows his eyes. “Oi, is there anywhere else you’re supposed to be?” The scenarios and the possibilities taunt his mind.

“No,” Harry tells him, huffing, “I’ve bought something for you. I’ve left it in the freezer. It should be at the proper temperature now.” He makes an aborted move to stand, but his hands remain at Eggsy’s ankles. “If you could, please,” Harry politely asks. And Eggsy wonders what it would be like if he refuses. If he climbs on his lap full-on and never let him go.

But then he’s curious about what Harry could have bought him and he pulls his legs back.

When Harry returns with two items separately wrapped in hand towels, Eggsy has a hard time figuring it out.

“Reusable gel ice-packs and ice-blocks,” Harry supplies, “I didn’t know which one you preferred. I bought a few. The rest are in your freezer.” He hands them over to let Eggsy feel it out. Honestly, Eggsy doesn’t even know what to say because he’s all _soft_ and stupid and shit.

This is not how today was going to be. Harry was supposed to be the one getting ruined. Instead, Eggsy’s being ruined worse than he already has been.

 _It will be different tomorrow_ , Eggsy promises himself. _It’ll be different. I have to work up to it, that’s why._

“I like this one,” Eggsy announces, holding out the plastic ice-block, uselessly squeezing it. “Yeah. It’s hard. I like it.”

He can’t even look at Harry when he says it, but he notices him go still for a split second, he _swears_ it, and--

 _Yes_ \--Harry picked up on it. Yes. Good. It begins.

Eggsy can’t quite help himself and sniffs as he guides Harry’s hand to press the ice-block against his shoulder. “You know, when you said you got me something I thought you meant like, a popsicle or somewhat. That would’ve been nice. Something cool to suck on in this weather.”

“...Would you li--How about I get you a tub of ice-cream instead? What flavour would you like?”

Managing to keep his expression neutral, Eggsy thinks about it. Can he do something seductive about ice-cream? It’s not exactly like a popsicle, is it?

“That depends, do I get a pack of ice-cream cones with it?”

Harry huffs. “You drive a hard bargain.”

“Is that a yes or no?” Eggsy checks.

“No,” Harry responds. It’s such a shocking answer that Eggsy gawks.

“‘ _No_ ’?”

“No.” Harry remains resolute.

“Wow, that hurts. Maybe I _am_ spoiled.”

 _That’s okay. I can improvise_ , Eggsy swears to himself, determined.

 

\--

 

Harry shakes his head.

This is getting ridiculous. It’s almost as if the universe is torturing him on purpose. The idea of Eggsy sucking on popsicles should be banned. It will not happen. Not on his watch.

He’s been here less than two hours and he’s already been put through an emotional roller coaster. The prospect of being here until Michelle comes home is daunting.

But Harry holds on, steadfast.

They have a few things to get through. He manages to get Eggsy comfortable and settled enough to lecture at him and discuss the current state of the English social classes, along with a brief overview of their history. While seemingly boring, it’s very important in Harry’s point of view. Social constructs ties into the structure of power that drives the essence of things as they are today. He’d like to arm Eggsy with that knowledge.

Whether it’s classism or feminism--or lack thereof--among many other things, he wants Eggsy to understand. Of course Harry can’t cover everything in a few hours of a single day, but hopefully it at least gets him thinking about such matters.

Eggsy can’t be one of those people that Harry’s had to deal with in Eton or Oxford. Brilliant people, but with terrible arrogant beliefs that were bound to bring them down in the end. That’s what these lessons are for. Mostly. Harry hates to think that Eggsy could ever be like that, but the environmental strain of such places can be overwhelming.

“What’s the point of all this?” Eggsy interrupts him.

“You must use this knowledge to your advantage to get ahead. Not only in academic and social aspects of your life, but perhaps in a manner that will make you well-rounded overall.”

“...What.”

“The world is _changing_ , Eggsy,” Harry informs him, “There’s a reason why aristocrats develop weak chins.”

Eggsy presses his lips together, seemingly mulling it over. Eventually, he opens his mouth to speak softly. “Your chin looks fine to me.”

After a moment, Harry huffs and turns away, unable to bear it. Bloody hell. He’s getting all _warm_ about it. Preposterous. It’s unbecoming. This must be why he was trained all these years to be a top-notch operative. To gain defences and to manage at the very least to save face when it comes to Eggsy Unwin. But even then he doesn’t think it’s very effective.

Either way, he must move forward.

“I’m not an aristocrat," Harry lies, immediately barrelling on, “And, to quote Ernest Hemingway: There is nothing noble in being superior to your fellow man--True nobility is being superior to your former self.”

Eggsy stares at him, appearing rather stunned. It’s barely audible, the way he whispers, “...Damn.”

“Remember this, always. In the future, you will encounter many who believe quite the opposite, those who revel in putting people down. You must remain strong, Eggsy.”

There’s seemingly no reply to that and Harry--"If you could stop biting your lip--” He helplessly admonishes.

“Why?” Eggsy challenges simply, pressing the ice-block harder on his shoulder.

_Because it’s ruining me._

“Because. Your split lip is healing. Don’t aggravate it.” He tears his gaze away. “Now, social construct is related to social _conduct._ Delving into the next module, let me enlighten you about the patterns of social events and the particular customs and mannerisms that come with it.”

“That’s interesting and all, really, but why don’t you enlighten me about what we’re gonna have for lunch.”

Harry blinks, an idea forming in his head. “How are your shoulders?”

Frowning, Eggsy testingly hunches his shoulders. “S’numb for now.”

“Are you up for some movement?”

“...Yes,” Eggsy answers suspiciously.

“Perfect.” Harry flips to the first page and hands it to him. “Come, let’s move back to the essentials. In this case, cooking.”

He stands and makes his way to the kitchen.

“Oi!” Eggsy calls after him in disbelief. “Are you serious?”

“Of course I am. Every man must learn how to fend for himself. He mustn't depend on anybody.”

“I’m an only child who grew up with a single mum who’s had three jobs at once,” Eggsy retorts, following him anyway, “I know how to cook, Harry. Remember?”

“Ah, yes, that salty spaghetti," Harry reminiscences with mixed feelings. Mostly fondness. “Worry not, you can simply sit back and watch if it gets too much. You shan’t be doing anything too taxing for your shoulders.”

“S’that a challenge, guv?”

Huffing, he absently mollifies him, “It doesn’t have to be, Eggsy."

Going from Harry's watch, it’s almost half past eleven. Which makes sense, because it’s heating up in the flat even though there aren’t any lights turned on. Simply an unfortunate consequence of the sun rising higher.

Harry begins to unbutton his suit jacket.

He’s barely halfway done, mentally looking for a place to set it down when he turns and falters at the sight of Eggsy sat on the counter right behind him. It’s terrifying, how Harry doesn’t miss the way Eggsy’s gaze sweeps down. He’s frozen with it, with the heat that flushes through his body.

Harry has seen what he’s seen but his mind cannot process it properly.

Even his fingers fail him despite the fact that he’s blindly unbuttoned his clothes countless of times before. Eggsy briefly meets his gaze and tilts his head before reaching for his buttons, brushing against his hand, lightly finishing Harry’s work for him.

_No._

_No, it can’t be,_ Harry thinks in a devastated panic. He can’t move. He can’t. But as Eggsy works at the buttons, each motion pulls him closer and closer.

Harry can’t pull away either.

_He’s only being helpful. He’s being kind._

There’s a slight pause when Eggsy finishes. Harry’s racking his brain for anything to say, but then Eggsy’s hands are sweeping upwards, leaving a trail of electrifying warmth in their wake when they slip underneath the suit jacket, palming at his chest through the shirt before shrugging the suit jacket off his shoulders.

“C’mon,” Eggsy coaxes softly, hands sliding down the back of Harry’s arms, down to his hands, catching the jacket before it falls to the floor. “There you go.” His hands go back up to set the suit jacket over Harry’s shoulders. But his hands stay there, around Harry’s neck.

It’s then that he realises that he’s practically between Eggsy’s legs.

_No. Don’t--Please, no._

But words form in his mouth and it takes a while for him to manage it. “...W...What would you like?”

He hears himself say it and he immediately wants to take it back.

Eggsy raises an eyebrow. “For lunch? Or…?”

“Of course _for lunch_ ,” Harry breathes out in a rush, belatedly realising he’s been holding his breath. “What else could it be?”

Eggsy’s biting on his lip, clearly trying to look subservient by attempting to hide a smile--a kind of smile that says he’s _won_ something. And Harry hates him at once.

Harry hates himself as well. Hates himself for attempting to be a decent human being when every other aspect of his life has been ridden with unspeakable immoralities. God, he wants to wreck this boy right here at this very moment. To take him apart and make him beg and ruin him for anybody else.

He wishes things were different. That he never met him as a child. That he didn’t fall in love first. He could see himself crossing the line then despite the age gap. That is, if Eggsy wanted him back. But Harry could see himself _making_ him want it. See himself taking him to bed and teaching him things, buying him things. Harry wouldn’t care about anything else but coming home mission after mission just to make him _come_. He could even scheme and take him away from Michelle, keep him for all himself--

And _that_ \--there lies an even darker path that stops his errant thoughts.

That’s not how it should be.

Eggsy should be treated as a person with his own rightful dreams and goals and priorities. Along with that comes the people he cares about. Eggsy shouldn’t be manipulated. Eggsy deserves to make well-informed choices that comes with insight and experience. Eggsy deserves to be loved and taken care of, in all aspects of his life, not just in bed. Eggsy deserves someone who can get along with his friends, with his _mother_.

Michelle wouldn’t even let him breathe in the same space as Eggsy if she knew.

Fingers lightly dig in the back of Harry’s neck.

“Hey,” Eggsy softly says. Harry looks up to see him frowning, concerned. He doesn’t know what Eggsy sees, but he seems rather chastised for a moment, averting his gaze before meeting Harry’s again. “M’sorry--Can you help me take this sweatshirt off first, though? S’getting warm. My shoulder hurts.”

 _Does he know?_ The dreaded thought pierces through Harry’s muddled mind. _Does he know? Does he know? Does he know?_

But Harry’s hands are already at the hem of Eggsy’s sweatshirt despite all the alarms in ringing in his head.

At last, Harry manages to avert his gaze downwards, away from Eggsy’s as he slowly begins to pull the sweatshirt up. “Hands, Eggsy.”

Eggsy’s hands leave the back of Harry’s neck and Harry continues taking his sweatshirt off. He feels Eggsy’s breath hitch and Harry swears it’s from the pain of his shoulders.

Revealed once more, Eggsy’s eyes are hazy. “Thanks,” He murmurs, looking terribly _soft_ and non-threatening in his worn blue shirt and his disheveled hair, even as his hands come back to settle on the back of Harry’s neck again.

 _He’s deprived. That’s all it is,_ Harry manages to remind himself, doing his best not to stare at the moles on Eggsy’s arms, along with the faded bruises on the wrists. He does his best to resist the urge of putting his mouth on them and giving them the attention they deserve. Instead, he folds the sweatshirt and sets it on the side.

_He’s deprived. That’s all it is._

Finally regaining his control, Harry raises an eyebrow, working to save face. “If you wanted a hug, Eggsy, all you had to do was ask.”

Eggsy blinks at him--and suddenly becomes overwhelmed by _embarrassment_ if his groan is anything to go by. Avoiding Harry’s gaze, he hangs his head down, forehead touching Harry’s shoulder as he mutters, “To be fair, the last time I asked for a hug, I was officially denied.”

 _But I failed regardless_ , Harry doesn’t say, tilting his head to lay his cheek on top of Eggsy’s hair. “I’m going to cook you three meals in a span of one hour. Please pay attention.”

“Yeah? You gonna show me how to make some proper lunch?”

“What would you like?” He asks again, managing to hold it together.

“Whatever you’ll give me, Harry,” Eggsy says, casual and partly muffled. “Whatever you think I’d like. You seem to be good at that.”

Harry grips at the counter, right next to Eggsy’s knees. They stay for another few seconds like that before Harry finds the strength to pull away.

 

\--

 

Switching out the ice-block with a new one from the freezer, Eggsy takes pity on Harry and starts turning on fans in the flat. There aren’t many and they’re very small but--

“There’s no need for that. The food will go cold quicker.”

“Hot day, hot food. I’d rather one of them go cold or I’m gonna die.” Eggsy sends him a flat look, walking to the chair where the suit jacket is neatly hung. He takes the chance to palm at the inner pockets and pulls out a handkerchief before making his way back to peek over at the multitasking cookery.

A few steps more and soon enough, Eggsy’s resting his chin on Harry’s shoulders, sniffing at the stir-fry and watching the pasta boil. “Smells nice.”

“Yes. I do hope you were paying attention.”

Eggsy turns his head slightly to simply watch him for a few moments. His face, his expression. Harry has this calm determination concentrated on the tasks in front of him. “Some nice hand-eye coordination there," Eggsy finds himself sincerely complimenting.

Their faces are so close. He gets the dumb urge to lean a few inches closer and kiss Harry on the cheek. But that’s gay _as fuck_ \--more than what Eggsy can handle right now--that’s just too much.

With the handkerchief, Eggsy pats at the sweat on Harry’s temple and down to the side of his face.

Harry stills.

Okay, now was _that_ too obvious? Has he figured it out yet? Because with the thing earlier on the counter, Eggsy _swears_ there was something there. But Harry seemed to be having a great debate with himself about it. Which truly makes Eggsy realise just how repressed Harry actually is. Like, yeah, he used to joke about it before but for fuck's sake what does Eggsy have to do for him to finally realise--

Harry closes his eyes.

“Eggsy,” He utters, unreadable.

“Mmm?”

“Perhaps we should begin discussing personal space as well.”

Eggsy’s heart sinks. He purses his lips and tries to argue, “I already know.”

“Do you?” Harry prompts, neutral, “Then what are you doing?”

Pressing an ice-block down his own shoulder, Eggsy mumbles against Harry’s, “S’too late for us, innit?”

At that, Harry seems to lose the tension in his muscles. But it's more resigned than relaxed. “It’s never too late to learn something.”

“How about you just keep making that lunch and I keep learning that instead?” Eggsy suggests lightly. As he senses another round of protest, Eggsy immediately moves the ice-block against the crook of Harry’s shoulder on the other side.

Harry’s breath hitches before a hiss follows.

Eggsy relishes the feeling of it. “S’nice innit? Cold.”

He can pick up Harry’s accelerating pulse and--God, _what the fuck_ , why is this whole thing turning him on?

“Eggsy,” Harry utters through gritted teeth, trying to evade the feel of the ice-block--but moving away from it causes him to press against the side of Eggsy’s face. Harry’s breath hitches again and _fuck--_

A part of him just can’t help but wonder if this is turning Harry on too.

In a haze, Eggsy’s hand slowly moves the ice-block higher, sliding it on Harry’s neck now. There’s a sharp intake of breath and Harry’s shoulders bunch up instinctively.

“Eggsy,” Harry finally snaps, ordering, “ _Behave_.”

Eggsy helplessly whines against the crook of Harry’s neck. “But I’m just trying to make you feel good--S’hot, isn’t it, Harry?”

Harry lets out a hiss, indiscernible, but Eggsy picks up on it and fucking _yes_ \--There’s something here. There’s something _here_ and--

_I’m going to ruin you. I can’t fucking wait._

“Go set the table,” Harry commands, tone brooking no argument, seemingly getting his sense of control back.

Eggsy bites down on his lip. “Yes, Harry.”

 

\--»

 

Harry is very unsettled. In more ways than one.

If he gets a full hard-on in this bloody place, he swears he’ll leave immediately.

Thankfully, he was only halfway there. As it is, he’s calming down.

They sit across from each other on the dinner table. Eggsy’s suspiciously casual. Too casual. Eyes bright and wide as he goes on settling the last of his utensils.

There’s something very wrong here.

Harry is attempting to reassess everything that’s been going on for the past twenty-four hours when Eggsy blinks at him.

“You gonna teach me how to pray or what?”

“Pardon?”

“Isn’t that part of etiquette training? I know some people do that.”

It’s odd how affected Harry’s thinking is, how sluggish it is compared to field missions wherein thousands of scenarios and options hit him at once. But maybe that’s because he doesn’t want it to.

Eggsy stares at him, seemingly content to wait.

Harry can’t find a thing to say other than urging him to go on with his meal.

Huffing, Eggsy shakes his head. “Maybe it’s time I teach you something.”

“Mmm?” Harry cautiously hums in question.

“Did you know there’s a Cockney bible?”

Harry narrows his eyes. “No.”

“It’s true! Ryan has one!” Eggsy insists, “There’s even a Lord’s Prayer and everything--I’mma recite it for you.” Eggsy clears his throat, clasping his hands and closing his eyes, almost a parody of an angelic little boy---An image that likely facilitates a ticket reservation to a lower circle of hell with Harry’s name on it.

“Hello, Dad, up there in good ol’ Heaven,” Eggsy begins, “Your name is well great and holy, and we respect you, Guv.”

Harry’s brows furrow, uncertain of the authenticity of this whole passage. Out of curiosity, he keeps his silence.

“We hope we can all ‘ave a butcher’s at Heaven and be there as soon as possible. And we want to make you happy, Guv, and do what you want ‘ere on earth, just like what you do in Heaven.”

If it’s all a lie, Harry would be very impressed.

“Guv, please give us some Uncle Fred, and enough grub and stuff to keep us going today, and we hope you’ll forgive us when we cock things up--”

Harry’s eyebrows raise, and he does his absolute best not to memorise the way Eggsy says the word ‘cock’.

“--Just like we’re supposed to forgive them who annoy us and do dodgy stuff to us. There’s a lot of dodgy people around, Guv.”

Harry presses his lips together.

“Please don’t let us get tempted to do bad things. Help keep us away from all the nasty, evil stuff, and keep that dodgy Satan away from us, ‘cos you’re much stronger than ‘im. You're the Boss, God, and will be for ever, innit?” Eggsy peeks an eye open. “Cheers, Amen.”

“Amen,” Harry finds himself murmuring back and gestures at the food. “Did you truly memorise that?”

“Well, I figured I could use it in a talent show or something--to take the piss, you know, but I never got hyped up enough to do it. Forgot about it till now.”

“Well done on reciting it then,” Harry praises him for the lack of anything to say.

Eggsy perks up. “Yeah?”

“...Yes.” Harry averts his gaze and starts on the food. Eventually, he figures out another thing that’s been bothering him. Eggsy is too...agreeable. He’s too...tactile. Not that he wasn’t before, but that’s exactly it. _Before_ this whole misunderstanding with Michelle. And Harry’s quite certain that Eggsy isn’t over that. This time it’s rather... _excessive_ as well.

It’s almost disturbing.

Nevertheless, Harry continues lecturing on about social conduct, expanding on specific customs and mannerisms regarding different kinds of social events. Perhaps if he gets too monotonous and mundane, Eggsy will realise how dull he is and get bored. Distance himself. It’s something not only Harry has to do, he’s come to realise. Despite the recent rift between them, the boy somehow sees him as a father-figure, even perhaps against his own wishes.

But Eggsy is leaning forward, holding his own in the discussion, enthusiastically engaging.

“So it would be bad manners of me to flirt back with an older woman, huh?” He spears a piece of beef with a fork one-handed and presses an ice-block on his shoulder with the other. “Not in front of her husband, at least.”

Something within Harry rears its nefariously possessive head back and he manages to tamp it down. “Flirt _back_? Do older women make a habit of flirting with you?”

“I’m just saying, _theoretically_.” Eggsy winks at him.

The wretched little--

Harry takes a calming breath and moves on. He excuses himself before Eggsy even finishes his meal to retrieve his briefcase and the lesson plan from the living area.

A change of environment would be good. Especially the table and the distance between them.

Eggsy frowns. “We’re not going back on the sofa?”

“No, it would be wise to practice sitting without slouching for a prolonged period of time.” Harry gives him a handout to go over and read.

For a moment, it looks as though Eggsy will protest. But he settles back in his seat and shrugs lightly, carefree. “Whatever you say, Harry.”

Suspicious.

 

»

 

They work on the lessons like that in the next few hours.

The amount of innuendos are unnerving. Harry isn’t certain if he’s going mad or if it’s something else. He apprehensively suspects that Eggsy has figured it out.

That this is all punishment.

It would certainly make sense.

Harry subtly takes note of his behaviour. He’ll analyse them later when time and sanity allows. In a way, he feels rather guilty about making an issue about Eggsy’s good behaviour. Perhaps Eggsy is simply even more brilliant than the usual. Must Harry put a deplorable spin on it? Eggsy’s doing a fantastic job of being a pupil, far from how they were back in Holland Park.

Eggsy asks questions, voices out his opinions, his concerns, even his scepticism. He _engages_ with the topic at hand. It lets Harry know that he’s taking it seriously, that he’s eager to learn, even when they disagree on some aspects. There are times when Eggsy goes off on these tangents but manages to tie it back to the lessons regardless. It’s very impressive, the way his mind works. He makes these conclusions and responses that even Harry couldn’t possibly get to in the same amount of time-frame.

Harry’s mind wanders and thinks of many ways to reward him. He genuinely wants to get him a puppy, but that might just be too excessive. Eggsy hasn’t misbehaved too much for Harry to raise the shopping limit. As much as Harry wants to cheat and nonsensically do so regardless, he manages to keep his integrity out of respect.

Being in the Unwin flat for a prolonged period of time only adds to the idea he’s had for quite a while.

This place is small.

Too small.

Now, don’t get him wrong, Harry has had all kinds of training, including one involving _very_ small spaces. With no water or food or adequate amount of air.

But--Eggsy _lives_ here.

It’s not a temporary situation. Eggsy has lived here, has probably lived in even smaller spaces and is likely apathetic of the prospect of living here or somewhere similar for the rest of his life. He’s probably used to it. In that humble way of his.

Harry isn’t...entirely comfortable with that idea.

Not when he can do something about it.

Mindlessly reading the passage before him in silence, Harry genuinely considers actively making some plans.

Outside his heavy concentration, he barely notices something brushing up his leg.

“Hey--Daddy, can we take a break?”

“Mmm?” Harry absently replies, tapping his finger on the paper. “Yes, of course, darling.”

He goes rigid once the words leave him. He likes to think he keeps his expression neutral when he tentatively looks up at Eggsy.

Biting his lip, Eggsy grins. “M’kay.”

 

\--»»

 

They’re having one of their breaks when Eggsy finally braves asking him something that’s been scratching at the back of his mind. Because--

_It’s now or never. Persevere, you piece of shit._

“What’s so attractive about blokes?”

Harry’s doing that blank blinking thing that tells Eggsy the repression’s rebooting the whole system. That shit needs to be uninstalled pronto.

But Eggsy’s gonna have fun with it.

As soon as he gets over the embarrassment, that is. Because this isn’t just for seduction purposes--which is something that is largely spurred on by bitterness, so it _does_ make him a bit shameless--This is also a genuine question.

Eggsy doesn’t know.

Which is ironic, yeah. But it’s true.

“Pardon?”

Huffing, Eggsy tries to play it off. “You said you didn’t mind what...bits--Like, I know what’s attractive about birds, yeah? The face and the--” He gestures curves with his hands. “The shape and the tits and the--cute stuff.”

Harry’s eye twitches. And okay, so maybe Eggsy’s being crude about it in a way that would get him a punch from Roxy, but she ain’t here and being explicit offends Harry’s delicate sensibilities. So good.

“Why do you need to know?”

Eggsy raises his eyebrows. “Dunno.” He shrugs. “Just curious. You’re teaching me lots about the world already. You might as well.”

“...It’s different. It depends on a person’s preference,” Harry finally replies.

“Mmm.” Eggsy props his chin up with his hand. “And what’s yours?”

Harry does absolutely nothing. His expression doesn’t change, he doesn’t move. Eggsy isn’t even sure if he’s breathing.

Tsk. He has to lull him into it.

Eggsy sighs. “Well, ‘cos, y’know, as I said--girls, pretty simple. Blokes--I just can’t seem to figure it out. Some perspective would be nice.”

“There’s no need to figure it out. Perhaps you’re simply not attracted to men,” Harry states flatly.

Eggsy wants to laugh.

He wants to laugh, and laugh, and laugh, and laugh. But he does his best to hold back, pressing his lips together. He likes to think he manages to keep a straight face as well.

“How would you know?” Eggsy tilts his head, mild.

Harry blinks at him. “Because.”

“Because?”

A tense silence blankets the room.

Eggsy braves past it, casual and unassuming. “You never know--Hell, I don’t. I’ll have to figure it out, won’t I? I’m, what, only gonna be sixteen soon? There’s a lot to figure out, Harry.”

Harry’s lips thin as he nods. “Yes, suppose there is. You’re young after all.”

Shit. Backfired.

Rolling his eyes, Eggsy perseveres. “So what is it then? Is it the face? Is it the build and the muscles?”

“As I said, it depends on every individual. Attraction is relative,” Harry drones. “Sometimes personality comes into play.”

Eggsy chortles. “Come on, let’s be real--Don’t give me baby answers here. ‘Personality’, my arse. I meant it more like…as if you were on the pull at some pub type of deal.”

He’s pretty sure Harry’s grinding his teeth. Is it because Eggsy’s being nosy about his private life? Or is he getting annoyingly overprotective at the prospect of Eggsy doing what he just described? Eggsy wouldn’t put it past him.

Either way, he pushes through, genuinely trying to think about it. Because when Eggsy imagines himself in that scenario, all the blokes look like the normal people he sees everyday, but when it _actually_ comes to the prospective blokes he’s bound to chat up, they all turn faceless and generic. “If it’s the face, then...I don’t know. What makes a nice face in a man? Does the face really matter if you’re only after a shag? So it would be the body then, wouldn’t it?”

Of course they’d have to be...fit, won’t they? What’s ‘fit’, exactly? Like, alright, he _knows_ \--His eyes cut away to Harry’s well-fitting shirt--but that’s different. What about _someone else_?

Eggsy’s imagination fails him, and he feels the need to backtrack. “Like, okay, when I see a bloke, I can tell whether or not he’s...y’know, handsome or not, if the girls would like that. But it doesn’t mean I would wanna shag him or something, you know what I mean?”

“One can appreciate the aesthetics without wanting to...take one to bed, as it were.”

“Exactly!” Eggsy exclaims, pointing a finger at him.

 _But I want to take **you** the fuck to bed, _He manages not to voice out his frustration.

“Then you’re simply not attracted to men,” Harry concludes again. “Moving on--”

“Oi--sod off, maybe I’m a late bloomer, me!" Eggsy protests. And maybe it’s not entirely a lie. Maybe he _is_ on his way there, because he suddenly remembers that bloke from Year 13 who helped him with that philosophy homework that one time. He was nice; He didn't have to help him--He literally just passed by and noticed Eggsy glaring down at his paper in the library and decided to help out. He spent his whole lunch time doing so. And yeah, you know what? He had nice hair.

He glares at Harry’s flat expression of scepticism.

_Yeah, take that._

And he had...an okay body. Probably. Eggsy wasn't really paying attention. Probably average to fit. He had a nice soothing voice, patient and everything. Great laugh too, not patronising whatsoever--Shit. It’s good that bloke’s meant to be in uni by the time term starts or else Eggsy would have a problem meeting him in the eye.

Either way, he considers telling Harry just to prove him wrong. But he flakes out, only raising his chin at him and muttering, “You never know.”

“Right.”

Eggsy narrows his eyes. You know what? If Eggsy _had_ to be a bit extreme, Cavendish is _kind of_ attractive. In that suave generous rich bastard way. Depends, really. Hell, maybe even Wiltshire. Shit, maybe even Lestrade. _Gross_.

Eggsy scrunches his face, wishing for a way to get amnesia for the past few seconds. “This would be easier if you tell me what you like for comparison, y’know,” He grouses, “Do you like them fit, Harry? Do you-- _Oh_ \--Is it like what blokes like when it comes to girls? Minus the tits? So does the arse matter? Of course it does, doesn’t it?”

Does Eggsy’s arse cut the quality inspection? Is it perky? He’s never checked.

“ _Eggsy_ ,” Harry stresses with authority, sabotaged by a hint of desperation, “That’s a long enough break, don’t you think? Moving on to the ‘ _Black Tie vs. White Tie_ ’ event classifications--”

“You wear a black tie on the first one and you wear a white tie to the other,” Eggsy supplies in a rush, waving him off, “And speaking of _long_ \--Hey! That counts, doesn’t it? Size preference? But how do you know just by looking---”

Harry abruptly smacks a firm hand on the dining table, the sound of it loud and jarring.

“Eggsy,” Harry admonishes quietly, bordering on that...dangerous way that makes Eggsy sit straighter up in his seat.

 _Yes,_ He manages not to hiss out in elation. _There it is._

“Yes, Harry?” He responds obediently.

“Behave.”

Eggsy bites his lip. “...M’kay. We’ll get back to it some other time.”

He shouldn’t do it, but damn, he can’t resist extending his leg under the table, socked foot touching Harry’s shoe, going up to his ankle, a _bit_ higher until Harry goes rigid. Eggsy laughs softly, trying for mollifying. “Relax.”

He moves his foot up and down, low on Harry’s leg, trying to calm him down. “ _Relax_. Why are you so tense all the time?”

“When does your mother come home?” Harry asks, toneless.

And that gives Eggsy some pause because--

_You know when she comes home._

“Dunno,” He says instead.

“She should be home any minute.”

“Mmm. And?”

“--Dinner. What would you like?”

Eggsy arches an eyebrow. “You gonna cook me dinner?”

“No, there’s not enough time. I’ll call for it.” The chair makes an ugly noise as Harry stands, pulling out his mobile.

Eggsy tries not to visibly deflate in disappointment. “Let’s have Italian.”

 

\--

 

As Eggsy starts digging into the containers, Harry moves to the living area to arrange his papers and pack up his briefcase. It’s seven thirty-one in the evening and it’s still light outside.

But Michelle still isn’t home.

_Perhaps you can stay till eight._

Harry grits his teeth.

 _No_.

It’s time to leave.

“Oi, for reals, are you leaving already?” Eggsy questions from the dining area, mouth full. He’s literally carrying the container, holding it up and eating out of it as he makes his way to the living area. And just like that--back to being childish.

This whole day has been such a whiplash from one emotional state to another. Harry is tired.

But he’s restless.

“It’s time for me to leave.” He focuses back to gathering his things and turns find Eggsy narrowing his eyes at him. Which looks absolutely ridiculous with his cheeks full like that. Harry hates the fondness seeping through his defences.

Eggsy keeps chewing and swallows, holding out the container. “But this is your favourite.”

“It’s fine, Eggsy.”

“Sit,” Eggsy orders.

Harry sighs, and finds himself sitting on the sofa against his will.

Eggsy hands him the container with the fork in it. “Hold this, I'mma get the others.”

Before Harry can even complain Eggsy’s already doing it. He wants to give a lecture about eating in the proper places but he’s been giving lectures all day. It’s taxing.

Returning with Harry’s suit jacket on his arm, Eggsy sits and sets the rest of the food on the coffee table. When Harry aims to reach for his jacket, Eggsy leans away and blindly sets it on the armrest behind himself.

“Nuh-uh. I’m holding it hostage. You gotta eat first.” Eggsy raises an eyebrow, pointedly looking at the container on Harry’s lap. “Go on.”

Staring down at it, Harry presses his lips. It’s not that it’s not appealing. He simply doesn’t have an appetite for it.

“Tsk.” Eggsy takes it from him, spearing pasta with the fork. “D’you want me to feed you? Lemme do that.”

Stunned, Harry instinctively leans far back to avoid the fork.

“C’mon,” Eggsy coaxes, wiggling the fork, “Payback for this morning, lemme do it. Just once.”

Harry ignores the wretched flush of something like embarrassment running through him at the prospect. “This morning was necessary due to your shoulder. I can feed myself.” He snatches the fork and eats, averting his gaze, ignoring the petulant look on Eggsy’s face.

“One of these days, I swear,” mutters Eggsy.

Harry resolutely eats in silence. It’s been a long day. Perhaps that is why he’s rather pliant to Eggsy’s will. Quite, right. It’s been a long _vexatious_ day. Perhaps Harry could reward himself with something for once. Perhaps a drink once he gets home? His mind wanders. Perhaps he’ll allow himself to sketch Eggsy. Just once.

Would that be severely inappropriate?

It’s not as if he’d keep it. It could be a birthday gift for him. Something handmade and personal. Next to the other range of gifts Harry would ultimately get for him. He’ll colour it and everything, either with water-colour or paint. Acrylic, or perhaps oil. He’d look marvelous, righteously museum-worthy, above all the timeless masterpieces that--

Harry pauses, fork halfway to his mouth, realising something. He flushes with warmth again, terribly preposterous for being someone his age. He might need to go to a doctor for it. “Eggsy, I do believe this fork is yours.”

“Yeah, but s’fine,” Eggsy quietly answers. Harry braves looking at him. It’s a mistake. The boy’s eating a pastry with his bare hand. “Thanks for the dessert, you didn’t have to--What’s this called? S’nice.” He bites into it again, the creme squeezing out on the other side. Eggsy abruptly manages to catch it with his fingers before it falls.

Dread swirling in Harry’s stomach, he manages to answer, “Sfogliatelle.”

He hopes it doesn’t sound hoarse as a result of Eggsy lapping up his fingers with a childish concentration, brows furrowed and all as he makes sure he’s licked every bit of it.

_Hell. That’s where I’m going._

_Yes, but we’ve established that already, haven’t we? Take him to bed, what’s another sin to commit?_

The thought evokes a paralysing fear throughout Harry’s rational senses.

Oblivious, Eggsy huffs. “I’m not even gonna bother repeating that, let’s be real.” Eggsy suddenly pauses and blinks, turning to Harry. “D’you want some? Here--”

“No, thank you.” He immediately glances past Eggsy for the suit jacket behind him.

“Oi, the only way you can get it is through me.”

He’s right. Harry would have to sneak an arm past him. Or both for a secure extraction--Then Harry would have his arms wrapped around him and that’s--He makes a show of glancing at his watch and changes the subject. “Is it still your day off tomorrow?”

“Mmm, technically, no.”

“However?”

Eggsy lightly shrugs and shoves more of the pastry in his mouth.

 

\--

 

Fucking dumbarse.

_You’re going on a date with my mum tomorrow, you think I didn’t switch my schedule out?_

“Hey, what time did you and my mum agree on?”

“Pardon?”

“For tomorrow? Your date,” Eggsy points out casually, managing not to bare his teeth. He mentally pats himself on the back.

Harry blinks like he forgot. Eggsy’s torn between preening and being offended for his mum.

“Twenty-thirty,” Harry eventually drones, “It’ll be late--I’ll be here in the morning for lessons if you’ll allow it.”

“Hmm.” Eggsy pretends to think about it. “M’kay, we’ll see.”

He attempts to furtively glance at him to peek at his reaction, but Harry appears to do the same thing, and now they’re both stuck staring at each other.

Now, see, Eggsy knows why _he’s_ looking at Harry, but what reason could Harry have for staring at him like that? It’s been three everlasting seconds now, and he still hasn’t looked away. To be fair, Harry’s neck is slightly turning as if that’s what he’s trying to do. But his eyes are locked on Eggsy’s.

And that’s--interesting.

Eggsy tilts his head. “Mmm?”

Harry’s mouth parts to speak, hushed, “What colour are your eyes?”

Okay...that’s...not what Eggsy expected at all, but sure, he’ll roll with it. “I dunno. Green, I suppose?”

“You’ve had your own eyes staring back at you in the mirror all these years and you don’t know?”

Eggsy slowly raises his eyebrows, a bit offended. “Well,” _~~Maybe ‘cos I don’t give a fuck~~ _ “It’s green.”

“It’s more than green,” Harry utters, brows furrowed.

Eggsy’s pretty sure this is as high as his own eyebrows can go. “...Erm...super green?”

Harry’s eyes narrow slightly in concentration, like that’s not a proper answer. Is that...what Harry’s trying to do? Figure it out? For whatever reason why, it’s...pretty gay. Well, there’s probably a logical non-gay answer but...yeah, it’s pretty gay either way.

With only two lights on in the whole common area of the flat, it’s technically dim. And with that, a treacherous idea passes through Eggsy’s head.

Biting his lip, he inhales through his nose. “You wanna figure it out for reals?” He abruptly moves in closer, closing the distance between them--

Harry flinches back, turning his head away.

_Fuck._

Eggsy bites down on his tongue.

_‘He loves me not’._

_Oh my god, shut the fuck up._

A beat passes before Harry places the container on the coffee table and rises from his seat. He grabs his briefcase and walks around the back of the sofa. Eggsy belatedly realises it, but Harry’s already snatching the suit jacket before Eggsy can reach for it behind himself.

“It’s late. Your mother will be home soon. Goodnight, Eggsy.”

Eggsy purses his lips but he manages to snap out of his bitter sulking by the time Harry reaches the door. “Hey, don’t I get a hug?”

Harry stops, back turned to him.

“No.”

“ _‘No_ ’?”

“You’ve technically had more than one today.”

Taken aback, Eggsy narrows his eyes. “I’m _sorry_ , is there a quota for hugs now?”

“Goodnight, Eggsy. Lock the door.”

“I’m negotiating that shit!” He calls out as he leaves.

Finally alone, he huffs, pouting. He grabs Harry’s container and eats from it, chomping away. He pulls out his mobile and checks all the notifications. Shit, even though he’s warned Yvonne that he’s not coming over for rehearsals since arse o’clock this morning, she’s still giving him shit about it.

She’s probably gonna give him some more for insisting the same for tomorrow. It’s not like he’s entirely lying. His shoulders  _do_ hurt. And she was there when it started to act up, so she shouldn’t grill him about it for too long once she realises how serious it could be.

He sucks around the fork, concentrating. Eggsy has to know his exam results. At least before Harry finds a way to see it. He has to know before anyone else. Just see whether or not he’s failed first.

Tapping his fingers on his mobile, he finally decides to call Ryan and gives him his login information. Ryan won’t remember it in the morning anyway. He’s weird like that.

Once Eggsy’s received the promise that he’ll get the results in a few, he hangs up and tidies up the flat. His mum’s probably working overtime again, but she shouldn’t be tomorrow. She has a date after all.

It will be a new day, Eggsy swears it.

 

 

 

 

** Part II **

 

 

Harry doesn’t look at the mirror when dresses in the morning.

He didn’t think about it at all last night. He merely went through the motions and went to bed.

It was better that way. It has been said that sleeping helps cognitive performance and sorts out the day’s events better than he himself could have done awake. Surprisingly enough, despite it all, it didn’t take much for Harry to fall asleep.

He feels...sharper.

Yesterday’s occurrences flash through his mind and he can’t deny it. Eggsy’s behaviour was different, bordering on surreal. It was almost...taunting.

It finally hits him when he’s buttoning his suit jacket.

_He’s seducing me._

His mind goes blank for an indiscernible amount of time.

When he _does_ snap out of it, he’s pressed to admit that it’s...surprisingly very plausible. It all makes _sense_. This is what Quinlan had warned him about. Eggsy--

Harry attempts to take in a proper amount of air. He doesn’t quite manage it.

_He’s seducing me to keep me away from his mother._

There’s something absolutely bizarre and likely unhinged about that scenario, the fact that Harry’s helplessly _proud_ of him despite the depravity of it all. Because--

 _That’s very clever_ , Harry admits with an unbearable fondness in spite of the severe discomfort. _Very, very clever._

While Eggsy had told him that there wasn't any other appropriate candidate in place to be Michelle’s partner, he has expressed his personal opinion about such a scenario before. The boy’s warring with himself about what he _thinks_ is best for his mother versus his own discontent.

Such a fickle heel-face turn isn't so uncommon. Eggsy _is_ a teenager, after all. He isn't sure what he wants, even when he thinks he does.

Harry once thought he wanted to be a doctor. Now, he’s almost thirty years into a career that involves killing people in several different ways.

Nevertheless, now that Harry’s aware of the situation at hand, he will be able to put up his defences much quicker considering he knows what he’s fighting against. Of course he will.

Harry Hart is a Kingsman agent. He has been for decades.

He will be able to resist the charms of a fifteen year-old boy.

 _At least ones that are put-on_ , A part of him points out, slightly begrudging.

Harry considers confronting Eggsy about it. He predicts the boy will be very embarrassed once called out on his attempts. However, Harry has to truly confirm it first. Harry would embarrass _himself_ if it didn’t turn out to be true.

He’ll observe his behaviour first. Because he has questions. Is Eggsy going for seduction because he’s privy to the knowledge that Harry doesn’t mind biological sex? Or is he going for it because he’s found out Harry’s loathsome secret?

There’s still a chance that it all hasn’t gone to ruin and that it’s the first one.

For now, Harry must stay professional. He has put upon himself the responsibility of educating him and he genuinely means it. This will be valuable for Eggsy’s future. Knowledge to arm himself with, knowledge to aid in his ultimate navigation through the way of the world. Eggsy won’t have to depend on anybody too much.

No amateur seduction attempts will get in the way of that.

As he passes by the guest room, Harry remembers something and backtracks, entering.

It’s very strange. He feels as if he’s trespassing in his own home. Either way, he makes his way to Eggsy’s desk, fingers trailing on the laptop.

Harry opens it.

 

\--

 

Unsettled, Eggsy angrily bites around a lollipop.

Last night, he fell asleep before he got his exam results from Ryan.

This morning, however---

It’s the first thing he woke up to.

He’s still not over it. He doubts he ever will be.

Eggsy bites down _hard_ on the softening caramel. The bloody thing sticks to his teeth and that makes him even angrier. Pulling at the stick is the wrong choice--The caramel only stretches out more but it doesn’t leave his teeth.

He bites it off and settles for chewing ferociously.

Things happen for a reason, and this must be why Eggsy hasn’t done well. Maybe he needed more of a reason to lash out. Maybe he needed more incentive to fuck up Harry Hart.

Good.

He’ll do that today.

Yesterday was nothing.

 

\--

 

A few minutes past zero seven-thirty, Harry enters the Unwin flat. Things appear the way it did when he came in here yesterday. Natural lighting from the windows, bit dim.

Eggsy in sweats, asleep on the sofa, except he isn’t wearing a sweatshirt, he’s using it as a blanket--and Harry is thankful that he doesn’t have to take it off him later when it gets warm.

Another difference is that Eggsy’s face is covered by an open book on photography. Which--is that a genuine interest of his? Does he have a camera? Will he let Harry buy him one?

Suddenly, Eggsy twitches, huffing as he pulls the book away from his face, stretching as he sets it next to the ice-packs on the coffee table. He sits up, rubbing at his face before blinking at Harry.

Harry waits to see what he does.

Resting an arm on the backrest, Eggsy shifts in his seat and--

Harry’s brows furrow. “Are you...alright?”

“Of course, I am--Why wouldn’t I be?” Eggsy presses his lips in a close-mouthed smile.

“How are your shoulders? Are you...in a different kind of pain? You’re sitting rather oddly.” Harry tilts his head, observing him carefully. Perhaps the boy slept wrong to accommodate his shoulders and now he’s pulled some other muscle--possibly somewhere in his lower back.

Because it’s simply bizarre, who sits like that naturally?

Eggsy continues to blink at him before being overcome with something like shame and annoyance. “Nevermind.” He turns away. “D’you bring me food?”

Harry raises a grocery bag. “I’m here to teach you how to make breakfast this time.”

“Oh my god,” Eggsy whines, grabbing the ice-packs on the table and standing, making his way to the kitchen. “How long’s that gonna take?”

Following him, Harry hums, non-committal.

 

\--

 

Hiding his face in the freezer as he switches out the ice-packs for an ice-block, Eggsy takes the chance to cool off. Because even admitting it to himself makes him want to die. Having the first seductive move he’s made pathetically _fail_ in the way that it did is absolutely mortifying and off-putting.

_Fucking--_

He shuts the freezer, pressing the ice-block hard on his shoulder. Once he gets over the shame, he’s sure the sheer anger of that humiliation will power him through.

“How are your shoulders?” He hears Harry ask.

“S’better than yesterday’s--” He waves it off, using the chair to get on the counter instead of propping himself up. He’s not risking that shit. “What are you gonna make?” He tries to peek at what Harry’s unloading from the grocery bag, but Harry’s form gets in the way.

Can’t say he doesn’t appreciate the view though. “Y’know,” Eggsy begins, feet restlessly hanging off the counter, “It’s bound to get hot again soon. You should take your coat off. It’ll help keep it away from smelling too.”

Oddly enough, after a brief pause, Harry does exactly that, turning to face him at the last few unbuttonings. “Where do you suggest I set it down this time?”

“With me,” Eggsy finds himself offering, restlessness somehow quieting down. It’s unnerving, the way Harry takes a few steps closer. But he stops a feet away from the space between Eggsy’s knees. It’s almost as if he’s...waiting for something. “What.”

“Are you going to move any time soon?” Harry murmurs, “You being on that particular spot wouldn’t save my suit jacket from smelling of your breakfast.”

“Well, to be fair, the flat being this small, nothing is probably safe,” Eggsy arches an eyebrow. “You shoulda brought an apron if you planned to keep cooking at my place.” His eyes can’t seem to help roving down Harry’s body, imagining him in it. God. That shouldn’t be a _thing_. Is that a thing? It shouldn’t be. Not even in a sexual sense, but just--what the fuck.

“Well,” says Harry, taking one step closer and holding out his suit jacket with both hands between them. “I’ll leave this with you then.”

Eggsy sets the ice-block down. Instead of simply taking the jacket, Eggsy lightly pushes Harry’s hands down to his lap and gingerly sets the jacket down from there.

All of a fucking sudden, he’s overcome with nerves. But _hell_ \--he ain’t backing out. Just keeps his gaze down for now until he’s sure he won’t break. “What are you making for me?”

“Hmm. I was thinking a Full English would do you well, but if you have any suggestions--”

“God,” Eggsy helplessly mutters, eyes down, “A _Full English_. Why didn’t I see that coming?”

“Tailored to your preferences, of course.”

“ _Well_ , if _that’s_ the case,” Eggsy drawls, heavy on the sarcasm for the sake of saving face. He still has his gaze down, unable to look at him. Eggsy reckons glancing around the room would be a good start--And that’s when he catches sight of the items laid out on the counter across. His uncharacteristic reservation dies at last at the _antagonising_ display. “Fucking-- _Cherry tomatoes_!” He barks, "What the fuck, babe, c’mon--" He likes to think he groans instead of whines.

“I’m not an infant, I am not your ‘babe’,” Harry responds coolly.

“ _Daddy_ ,” Eggsy thoughtlessly shoots back, petulant. He pauses at what he’s just said. He doesn’t know why he’s making a big deal out of it _now_ of all the times. Didn’t Harry practically give him permission yesterday?

Harry takes a step back. “Pay attention. Breakfast, as they say, is the most important meal of the day.”

 

\--

 

That was perilously close. Harry shouldn’t have played into it. He’s supposed to be the responsible party here.

But it’s rather infuriating, the thought that Eggsy thinks he could possibly maneuver him to his will, that’s--

Well, that wouldn’t be entirely off the realm of possibility--Regardless, the point _is_ , Harry feels the childish urge to retaliate. Which is senseless in this case. If Eggsy is indeed seducing him, it is only for the sole purpose of getting him away from Michelle. It’s not as if he’s actually attracted to someone _thrice_ his age.

Harry doesn’t want to terrify him by pretending to be rightfully susceptible to his manipulations. Despite his training, Harry feels that he’ll play into it _too_ convincingly.

But perhaps, in moderation, there could be a lesson taught here.

It’ll depend on what unfolds as the day goes on.

Harry is expanding on the merits of toasting bread in a toaster versus toasting bread in a mini-oven when he absently glances behind him to check if he’s paying attention.

And Eggsy is...texting.

“...Eggsy,” Harry begins warningly.

The wretched boy doesn’t even look up. “I’m paying attention. You can toast already-buttered bread in a mini-oven but not in a toaster. I got it.”

“Who are you--”

“Yvonne,” He answers casually.

Harry forces himself to turn back to the cooking. “Oh. I see. Don’t let me interrupt.”

There’s a sigh before the irritated excuse bursts out. “I’m just--asking for advice on something. Carry on.”

“No. It’s fine. No need to divide your attention when it comes to your significant other.”

“Oh my god--For fuck’s sake--”

“Seventeen,” Harry announces, crisp.

“What the--Oh my god, I swear it was thirteen last time--”

“Well, you haven’t been paying attention.” Harry busies himself by adamantly whisking a bowl of eggs.

Eggsy scoffs. “What’s next, you gonna punish me with cherry tomatoes on my plate?”

“Yes. What a great idea. For every one you don’t eat, your shopping limit goes up.”

“Oi!”

“It’s healthy,” Harry admonishes, innocent, “I care about your health.” He pauses. “ _Daddy_ cares about your health.”

Silence falls.

“Oh my god--No, you did _not_ just--You did not just play that card with me--” The boy actually sounds mortified.

Good.

How he attempts to seduce Harry one minute and call him ‘Daddy’ the next is beyond him. It’s time for a bit of retribution. Yes. Perhaps he’ll do that. Counter his attempts with ‘fatherly’ concern and complete obtuse stupidity, while appearing completely caught in his spell in the next moment.

Oddly enough, Harry sees himself committing with the first scenario more than the second. The second part is not only inadvisable, it’s also cruel in a way. Eggsy believes he’s doing the right thing, there’s no need to string him along simply to teach him a lesson.

Besides, Harry would never make the first move.

 

\--

 

Harry needs to make the first move.

Eggsy could play every scenario in his head and it doesn’t matter how desperate he gets, this is his only rule. Seduction is one thing, isn’t it? It could range from a hint to a fucking neon sign, it’s just a mating call, if anything.

But Eggsy dragging him down for a kiss, Eggsy pulling him close and grinding against him the way he’s always wanted to--that’s crossing the line, isn’t it? Isn’t that...coercion?

The point of this whole thing was to drive him mad, to break down that control and _see_ \--even if it was just for a second--see whether or not Eggsy’s not entirely crazy after all, see that Harry does want him back. And Eggsy wants him to fall apart and make that first move if it is.

If it isn’t true...then…

Fuck.

His mobile buzzes and he immediately opens Yvonne’s message.

 

**17\. 08. 2007 - Yve:**

_You’re still on this seduction thing?? Is he there? Do u want me to come over?? ;]_

 

 _‘Fuck off_ ’

 _‘Give me more scenarios and we’ll see if it’s worth invitin you over,_ ’ Eggsy types.

 

He doesn’t know why, it’s not like the sexy sitting thing worked out too well. But there’s gotta be some idea of hers that’ll pan out.

 

**17\. 08. 2007 - Yve:**

_You know, I’m half suspecting u have your hand down ur pants_

 

‘ _Not yet_ ’

 

When the suggestions start coming in, he could hit himself--It’s a bit stupid of him to have forgotten the classics.

“Hey, Harry,” Eggsy begins, putting the mobile down and eyeing the halved cherry tomatoes being seared on the pan. “Let’s make a deal.”

“Oh, dear, here we go,” Harry sighs. “Proceed.”

“How many of those you planning to put on my plate?”

“Depends.”

“What do I have to do to get out of it?”

_Suggestive bargaining. Check._

“No can do, Eggsy.”

“But--” He whines. “How ‘bout you just feed me one and let bygones be bygones, eh? C’mon, that’s not fair, it’s not like you’re feeding me bacon to ease the pain--”

“I’m cooking you gammon steak--”

“That’s not _bacon_! It doesn’t crunch! I like them crunchy, Harry, _crunchy._ ”

“Shall I burn it to a crisp then?”

“Oh my god,” Eggsy bursts out in genuine agitation. “I’mma leave. You’re never gonna see me again.”

“Dramatic.”

“Learned it from you!” He snipes back.

Harry sighs, stabbing a cooked cherry tomato with a fork. He turns and takes a few steps to where Eggsy’s sat on the counter. Instinctively leaning back, Eggsy eyes the tomato with absolute hatefulness. Harry raises an eyebrow.

Eggsy does his best not to bare his teeth. “What’s the terms here?”

Seemingly thinking about it, Harry narrows his eyes slightly. “Three. Then you’re free.”

“Poetic.” Squinting back, Eggsy feels his eye twitch. “Three? That’s more than the first time.”

“First time’s always easy and gentle,” Harry utters smoothly in immediate reply. Eggsy almost breaks then because _holy fuck_ \--”Also, these are in halves. Technically, you’ll be consuming one and a half tomatoes. Or shall I up the number? Yes, that’s--”

“No! C’mon,” He beckons urgently, absently setting Harry’s suit jacket behind himself instead on his lap. “Give it to me.”

Harry blinks, holding the fork out. “You’re not _exactly_ a child, you can feed yourself.”

That should be a good thing, yes, not ‘exactly’ a child, he’s getting somewhere but--Eggsy purses his lips.

They stare each other down.

Huffing and rolling his eyes, it’s clear that Harry’s grinding his teeth before he holds the fork a few inches away from Eggsy’s mouth. Eggsy purses his lips harder, regretting his decision.

Harry arches an eyebrow and tilts his head slightly. “...Will you open your mouth for me or--”

Struck by heat and absolute mortification, Eggsy immediately leans forward and swipes the cherry tomato, looking down as he chews, hopefully hiding his expression.

_Backfiring. Backfiring. Why is everything backfiring?_

But when he chances a glance up, Harry’s turning away, returning to the range cooker--and Eggsy doesn’t fucking know what he wants because he doesn’t want to be _seen_ , but--

“Oi, look at me--”

“I have to make sure I don’t burn your flat down, Eggsy,” Harry mutters, busying himself with the pans and the range dials. “Your mother wouldn’t let me visit again.”

“I could be spitting this shite out when you’re not looking,” He complains inbetween chewing, his feet banging on the drawers in petulance.

There’s a sigh before Harry starts turning off the controls. He stabs another tomato, straight from the pan. “Everything should be cooked already. Just needs to cool down--” He turns, walking towards Eggsy. He blows at the tomato. “Wouldn’t want to burn your tongue, that would be counterproductive,” He murmurs, blowing at it again before holding it out.

God, he’s infuriatingly-- _good_. Eggsy hates it.

He hopes it shows when he slowly leans forward to mouth at it and take it in.

“Atrocious,” Harry utters as Eggsy takes his time to chew.

“Mmm.” He does his best not to make a disgusted face because that’s hardly seductive--but it’s just _so_ difficult not to. “Y’know--I hate you. I hate you so much.”

“Good.” Harry turns away to put the cooked tomatoes on the plate this time, taking it with him and spearing one with a fork. “Hate me some more.” He blows at it again before holding it out for him.

Eggsy glares as he chews the next one. Harry simply sets the plate on the counter next to him.

Tsk. This seduction lark is much more difficult than he thought.

By instinct, he almost leans forward to eat the next one before he realises--”Oi, you said three--You can’t _fool_ me--” He scoffs, taking the fork from him and holding it in front of Harry's mouth instead, triumphant. “Your turn.”

Staring him down, Harry raises an eyebrow. “It’s hardly a victory if I like it.” That’s all he says before he quickly swipes it off with his mouth, chewing casually.

Eggsy’s blindly setting the fork down on the plate when it dawns on him. Shit--Harry’s between his legs now.

_Make a move, come on, come on, come on, please._

Eggsy could cry with frustration.

But despite how close they already are, Harry simply stays where he is and Eggsy is slowly on his way to going insane. A few agonising seconds more and _still_ nothing.

“...What are we doing today?" Eggsy begins, hoping to start something.

“That depends, Eggsy. What would you like us to do today?”

_Oh my god._

_Just fucking kill me._

Eggsy grinds his teeth, spiteful. “Well, whatever it is, you can wipe ‘ _Oxbridge_ ’ off the list.”

If Harry won’t love him, he might as well hate him.

“Pardon?”

“I got my grades," Eggsy tells him shortly, “I failed.”

Harry blinks, staring down at him like he’s lying. “How so?”

Eggsy raises his head, meeting his gaze head on. “Got a B in Geography.”

Harry blinks at him some more before huffing, relaxing. “That’s not a failure.”

“Yes, it is," Eggsy insists coldly. “Obviously I wasn't expecting any A-stars ‘cos I’m an arrogant piece of shit, yeah, but I ain’t _that_ arrogant--I know my place," Eggsy scoffs, ignoring the way Harry’s lips thin. “--With the amount of time you spent teaching me, I would have thought I would gotten at least an ‘A’. But obviously your time was _wasted_ ," Eggsy goads him, ‘cos it’s true, isn’t it? Harry wasted his time on him. Stupid.

“It was not wasted," Harry states authoritatively, “Getting a ‘B’ is not a failure. Considering how late we decided to review that subject, it’s rather good.”

“A ‘B’ ain’t gonna get me to Oxbridge, is it? It’s _done_ ," Eggsy tells him, final. He didn’t even want to go anyway. He was never meant to.

“You still have the other half of your A-levels, you still have time," Harry reminds him flatly.

“No," Eggsy insists, petulant. It’s been a few minutes since he’s numbed his shoulders, so when he turns away, he’s starts to feel the pain returning. It only makes him angrier. “Go on, say it," He goads, turning back to leer at Harry's face. “Say it was a _waste_ of time-- _I'm_ a waste of--”

Abruptly, Harry leans forward--surprisingly, _up_ \--mouth brushing against Eggsy’s forehead, making him shut the fuck up in absolute shock.

What was that? What was _that_? Was that an accident--

“Time with you is never a waste," Harry murmurs against his forehead, and Eggsy... _breaks_ inside. Lightheaded, he closes his eyes, hating him even more. Because that’s not fair, that’s not--"You did well. And you will do even better on the next ones--”

Eggsy makes a protesting noise, hands gripping at the sides of Harry’s shirt, ready to push him away. “You don’t know that, you don't _fucking_ \--”

“I do. I _do_ ," Harry mouths at his temple and Eggsy can't take in enough air to breathe properly.

 _Kiss me, kiss me, kiss me_ , He thinks wildly, _Kiss me better_.

“Eggsy," Harry breathes against his cheek, “I know what you’ve been trying to do.”

“What?" He questions, hazy and confused.

“There was never a need to seduce me.”

Eggsy freezes.

Harry sighs against him. “I’ve told you plenty of times before and I will tell you now: There is nothing going on between me and your mother. There never will be. There’s no need for this.”

Terrified, Eggsy wants to make up an excuse, to protest, but Harry continues on.

“While it was...interesting and...amusing to observe your attempts," Harry tells him softly, but Eggsy’s stomach _sinks_ either way. “I’m afraid I cannot let you go on.”

Eggsy can't speak, he can't--

“Eggsy--This cannot go on. Do you understand?”

Abruptly, Eggsy leans down to hide against the crook of Harry's neck, the hands on Harry's shirt clenching before settling themselves on the back, gripping again. What the fuck is he doing?

What the _fuck_ is he doing?

“Eggsy," Harry tries, gentle, and it’s worse. It’s worse than a sharp reprimand could ever be. “I know you’re likely embarrassed. But I do understand. You’re overprotective when it comes to your mother, of course you are. I commend that. But as I’ve said, there’s no need for such a thing. Especially not with me." Harry’s hand lays itself on the back of Eggsy’s neck and Eggsy feels him speaking against his hair. “You will desist in such actions. You will forget about it. I will forget about it. We will move on. In a few years, perhaps we’ll reminisce and have a laugh--" Harry huffs, but it somehow falls short, and Eggsy _hurts_.

Eggsy shakes his head, still hiding against Harry’s neck.

The next words are more stern underneath all that softness as Harry continues. “Perhaps in a few years--But darling boy, you must never do it again. Not with me, not with anybody. If it wasn’t me before you, if it was someone else, if it was a lesser man, they would have done unspeakable things. They would have taken advantage.” Harry begins to pull back and Eggsy just fucking clings, legs wrapped around him, feet crossed low behind Harry’s thighs now.

 _Take advantage_ , Eggsy wants to yell, _Why don't you love me? Why won't you love me?_

“Eggsy,” Harry sighs, “Never put yourself in that dangerous position. Lesser people wouldn’t hesitate--because lesser people do not...care about you the way I do.”

Silence eventually overtakes the room. And they stay that way for quite some time. Harry leting Eggsy be pathetic and cling to him like an oversized child. He even holds him back, the hand not on Eggsy’s neck haltingly going up and down on his back, soothing.

And Eggsy hurts and hurts and _hurts_.

“M’sorry,” Eggsy finds himself saying. Because he’s frantically trying to find a way to fix it and he can’t. He can’t.

“It’s alright, I understand,” Harry sincerely tells him. Eggsy hates it. Instead of the emptiness he feels inside, he begins to feel a kind of anger that he has never felt before. It’s worse than what he felt yesterday while on the call with Quinlan, it’s worse than what he felt this morning when he received his results. And it reaches its peak when Harry continues, hushed and stern. “You have to promise that you won’t do this again.”

The fury _burns_ so unbelievably hot that it feels _icy cold_.

“Eggsy--”

Hoping it hurts, Eggsy clutches tighter, buries his nose deeper against his neck. One slow inhale and he’s calm.

Calmer than he’s ever been in his life.

“I promise,” He lies evenly.

It’s better this way, isn’t it? From the way Harry seems to relax against him, Harry will keep his guard down.

He’ll _never_ see it coming.

 

\--

 

As much as Harry doesn’t want to let him go, he has to. In a sense, it feels as if there’s a little less to worry about now, a little less weight on his shoulders.

They will move on from this.

He lightly pats him on the back before pulling away. “Come on now, breakfast will get cold.”

They have much to get through today and Harry can only hope that Eggsy will get over the embarrassment to focus full-force on the lessons. He’ll have to go back to Kingsman for the North Korean assignment soon and Harry doesn’t know when he’ll be able to return.

Despite the tragedy and irony of it all, in a way, Harry is...proud of himself.

No matter how much he wanted to, he didn’t give in. He was able to pull away. He was able to put Eggsy first and foremost--as he should. It means that he’s getting better, it means that he’s regaining his sense of control, it means that he truly is getting somewhere with his recovery. It means there is hope.

Perhaps he can stay after all.

Harry can see it now. After finding a way to sabotage the long-term mission, Harry can be a part of Eggsy’s life without crossing that line. He will be there for him, he can be his support, he can be his mentor. It’s a viable future, Harry being in the sidelines, always being there if needed, called upon, but still keeping his distance.

It’s something he can be content with.

Perhaps the attraction will even fade, if not his feelings.

Harry blinks.

It might be better to keep himself grounded in the realm of actual reality. True progress is achieved by little steps. Not by delusions.

“What’s the verdict?" Harry finds himself asking. It’s not entirely out of sincere curiosity. It has been silent for quite some time now save for the sound of their utensils.

“It’s good," Eggsy tells him simply.

There’s something about it that makes Harry pause. It's neutral, genuinely so. Not the kind of neutrality that hints a deeper issue, anger or petulance. It’s not boredom either. It’s...colourless. It is what it is, there’s nothing more to it.

Harry is overanalysing it too much. He discreetly watches Eggsy eat for a few moments.

Eventually, Harry calmly sets his utensils down.

“Eggsy," He begins, hushed.

Eggsy looks up, rightfully questioning in expression. Harry doesn't know why he’s unsettled. It’s not as if he’s being seduced anymore, it’s not as if Eggsy is unreasonably angry or insisting the whole issue with Michelle.

But Harry is unsettled nevertheless.

“Do you need time?" Harry finds himself asking gently. Despite the need to get through the lessons or the need for the simple accomplished satisfaction of being in Eggsy’s presence, he will leave if asked.

Eggsy blinks at him, expression unchanged.

Harry clears his throat. “It’s alright to be embarrassed.”

Perhaps that is the issue here. Eggsy isn’t an operative trained in honeypot operations, he’s a teenage boy who was willing to do whatever it took to get a perceived suitor away from his mother. He had to get himself into that mindset to be even remotely convincing in his attempt at seduction. Worse, he had to convince _himself_ to be attracted to the father-figure thrice his age.

Harry purses his lips. In trying to put himself in Eggsy’s shoes, that would be Harry thirty or so years ago attempting to seduce someone like _Arthur_.

Disgusting. Absolutely _revolting_.

That’s a concept that should never even _be_. Harry would rather poison the man’s drink and get it over with.

“Do you want me to be embarrassed?" Eggsy asks him plainly.

It’s such a strange question that Harry takes a second longer than he should. “...No.”

“Then I’m not embarrassed.”

“I’m...afraid emotions don't work that way, I’ve been told." Harry keeps himself patient, because he doesn't want Eggsy to internalise something. The boy isn't exactly trained in compartmentalisation.

Eggsy only keeps staring at him. Unexpectedly, he huffs, a shy awkward grin on his face as he shakes his head. It shouldn’t be _disquieting_.

“Harry," He exasperates, like all is forgiven.

And that makes Harry pause. Forgiven? Harry hasn’t done anything wrong.

Except perhaps calling him out on his seduction attempt and embarrassing him as the consequence. But that’s all he can think of.

“Actually," Eggsy halts, seemingly overcome with hesitation, pushing his plate slightly forward to make some space. He clasps his hands in front of him, averting his gaze. “There _is_ something.”

Attentive, Harry tilts his head, motioning for him to continue.

“About the...hugging…” Eggsy trails off.

 _Ah_.

The prospect of it likely makes Eggsy uncomfortable now. Despite his deprived nature, perhaps he wants it to stop. Understandable, really. It shouldn’t make Harry apprehensive. This will be good. For the both of them.

It’ll be taking them a step back from their admittedly odd dynamic. It’ll give them some space, some modicum of professionalism, if anything. Publicly, Harry’s relationship to Eggsy is as a teacher to a student. There’s only a few handful of people who know about Harry’s tumultuous status as a family ‘friend’ to the Unwins.

At Eggsy’s continued silence, Harry feels the need to prompt him to action. “...Yes?”

“Is there really is quota on that now?”

Off-kilter, Harry finds himself speechless. He hasn’t really thought it through, but it’s simply for the best, isn't it? To ease the both of them out of excessive physical contact?

Before he can say anything, Eggsy’s socked foot lightly prods at his ankle under the table and--

 _He’s not seducing me anymore_ , Harry reminds himself, adamantly attempting to counteract his visceral reactions. He endeavours to analyse his behaviour. If it’s not part of Eggsy’s natural need to be tactile, it’s probably a leftover compulsion from what he was psyching himself up to do.

Completely understandable.

Harry must resolutely ignore any similar actions that’ll come his way.

“Oi," Eggsy tries to get his attention, near whining.

“There could be a quota," Harry responds, cautious, uncomfortable with giving much away.

Eggsy watches him for a moment. “I’d like to negotiate that.”

Harry raises an eyebrow. Despite the familiar apprehension, it cannot be denied that this would be a good transition to a lesson about negotiations and how to achieve desired outcomes. It’s such a crucial life skill. Harry wants this in Eggsy’s arsenal of things for the future.

And so he goes with it. 

“Is that so?" Harry keeps his tone neutral. He'll play it out and take it apart later to go over on what Eggsy could’ve done better and what he did well on.

Surprisingly, Eggsy responds with a bit of maturity, almost as if he’s in a genuine business deal. “Yes."

Utterly precious.

“Proceed.”

“So, okay, you know how you have that shopping limit thing?”

“Yes?”

“Why don’t we make them equal?" Eggsy suggests.

“Pardon?”

“Them numbers are too high, let’s be real. If you’re gonna give me like...two hugs a day, then maybe that should be just _your_ limit.”

Hiding his affront, Harry manages to appear level-headed. “That is not the same thing. The shopping limit is in place to dissuade you from errant behaviours, the kind that would go against your adamant promise of being ‘good’."

“But--”

“Unless--" Harry pauses, suddenly amenable to this scenario, “You meant that I’m allowed to buy you two things per day. Which adds up on the days that I haven’t bought you anything--”

“ _No,_ that is _not_ what I meant," Eggsy slowly tells him, an underlying steel cutting through, “Also, even if it was, you buy me food and stuff that makes a meal so that _would_ be covered--”

“Food doesn't count," Harry calmly maintains, “You need food to survive.”

Eggsy’s clearly about to argue when something buzzes. Eggsy takes his mobile out, flipping it open.

Harry’s lips thin. “Nineteen.”

Eyes on the screen, Eggsy absently waves the ice-block at him before pressing it down hard on his own shoulder, muttering, “Don’t be ridiculous.”

“It is _rude_ to be on your mobile when you're engaged in a conversation with someone.”

Eggsy finishes texting back and snaps his mobile shut, setting it beside him. “All yours, daddy.”

Harry’s teeth grinds. “Moving on--”

“Hey, you know what? If you really wanna buy me that much stuff, let’s do the reverse," Eggsy suggests like it _just_ occurred to him, “Make the quotas equal, but to your shopping limit.”

The idea is truly incomprehensible that it takes a while for him to respond. “...But that’s...nineteen hugs---Which, of course, isn’t by _day_ and I doubt you’d use them all at once, however, it’s simply not--” _~~Good for my mental health~~_.

“But I want it.”

Harry blinks. “Well, simply because you _want_ it doesn’t necessarily mean that you n--”

“But I _need_ it.”

“Twenty-one," Harry bursts out for the lack of a proper answer. “You’ve interrupted me more than once in the past minute alone.”

Eggsy purses his lips, head tilting against the ice-block under his neck like he craves it. When he speaks, he’s quiet. “...You’ve interrupted me too, you know.”

Harry doesn’t know what to say to that.

“Okay, how about this," Eggsy begins, sounding calm and _perturbingly_ reasonable, “How about...I be good for you, and you be good for me.”

Harry finds that the air is getting thin. If he isn't buying Eggsy a new place soon, he’s getting this flat an air-conditioning unit or two. “What does that entail?”

“Hmm, simple, really. If I get...naughty, then the shopping limit goes up." He shrugs lightly, “What can I do? Nothing.” Eggsy watches him for a few seconds. “ _‘No one is ever ‘good’_ ,’ you told me. Which, yeah, true. So you can't be entirely a _saint_ , Harry.”

Harry feels like he's breaking out cold sweat even though he knows he isn't. He’s an international spy for fuck’s sake, he likes to think he holds his neutral expression. “...I never said I was a saint.”

His eyes helplessly tracks the way Eggsy swallows.

Eggsy licks his lips, “As I’ve said, you’ve interrupted me a few times as well.”

“Yes. Certainly proves that no one is perfect.”

Eggsy watches him again. It’s a while before he finally speaks, slow and meaningful.

“...If _you_ _fuck_ up, the hug limit goes up.”

Harry takes a discreet breath, wishing to forget the enunciation that graced his ears. “...Eggsy, how many hugs could you possibly need that you would resort to such a ridiculous concept?” He questions in desperation.

“Maybe it’s time that _you_ be good for _me_ , Harry.”

“When am I _not_ good for you?" He automatically exclaims in indignance. Harry stills.

Eggsy’s foot travels up and down his shin, half-soothing and half- _maddening_. “Just think about it yeah?”

“...I will," Harry lies.

“Good, now when are you leaving?”

Harry blinks, completely caught off-guard. “Pardon?”

“Your date with my mum, don't you need to get changed?”

“Eggsy, it’s barely hours till noon. Dinner with your mother is in the evening," Harry reminds him, musing.

“Yeah, but when you leaving?" There’s a terribly hidden eagerness in his tone.

A paralysing thought strikes Harry.

_He wants me out of the way._

The text Eggsy has gotten--It was likely from Yvonne Jansen, which means--

_He’ll have her over._

Harry feels sick to his stomach.

_They'll--_

He keeps his voice steady and meets Eggsy’s gaze head on. “Do you want me to leave?”

Eggsy blinks. “...No. Just wonderin." He grins and it’s rather boyish. It doesn't reach his eyes.

For once, Harry decides to take advantage.

“Good. You’ll be cooking lunch.”

“...What.”

“A test, whether or not you were paying attention yesterday.”

“But--We just ate.”

“Later, Eggsy.”

 

»»

 

After a few lessons, Harry suggests it’s time for lunch. It’s past noon, but they _did_ have a big breakfast.

Eggsy is restless and has been doing a bad job of hiding it throughout their discussions. But Harry found him surprisingly attentive. Save for the constant _nuisance_ of that mobile.

Buggering hell, the shopping limit has got to be twenty-nine by how much Eggsy texted back alone. Undeniably petty, Harry wants to buy him three puppies at this point. Which, yes, good. Eggsy would be busy. Too busy for frivolous things.

What’s more concerning is his demeanor. It’s not exactly seductive per se, but there is something... _sharp_ beneath the surface. It seeps through every now and then, not only through words but movements as well; A smile, a tilt of the head, narrowed eyes that aren’t entirely due to scepticism or confusion.

Nevertheless, Harry chalks it up to Eggsy slowly unravelling, finally feeling vindictive about being caught and embarrassed. It doesn't really matter. Harry has survived all kinds of torture techniques in different countries and cultures. Surely he can handle what a fifteen year-old boy is bound to do. And that is if Eggsy _even_ decides to lash out.

He seems rather amiable for now. Harry doubts it’ll get to that.

“When are you leaving again?" Eggsy casually asks, stirring the pot of pasta.

Harry purses his lips. “There’s no need to stir pasta at that stage.”

Eggsy simply moves on to check on the stir-fry. Harry decides to busy himself, opening the fridge and taking inventory. If Eggsy asks him that question _one more time_ \--

“Hey Harry, come have a taste.”

“Mmm?" He turns to find Eggsy holding up a large wooden spoon inches away from his mouth and he instinctively leans back.

Eggsy raises an eyebrow and makes a show of blowing on the wooden spoon. “There." He offers it again. “C’mon, open your mouth for me--" Eggsy takes in a drag of air, probably in shock, which is understandable, because Harry himself doesn't even know when he opened his mouth to let Eggsy slowly put it in. “ _Good_ , Harry. How does it taste?”

Harry takes his time in tasting it and pulls back to speak. “A bit salty, but it’s nothing I can't live with.”

Eggsy stares at him, and there it is again, that _sharpness_ , for a split-second and then it’s gone. “M’kay."

Truthfully, it’s almost two in the afternoon and Harry _does_ have to leave soon. His plans with Michelle start at eight-thirty, but he has to make sure everything is in place and he has Kingsman business to look over along with that incident up north he has to follow up on with Quinlan.

Something vibrates. Harry’s eyes immediately cut away to Eggsy palming over at his pocket.

“Do _not_ even--”

“I ain’t--”

“Cooking can be dangerous, keep your focus.”

“Yes, sir.”

Harry's breath briefly gets stuck in his throat.

When he recovers, his lips thin.

It seems the road to recovery is much longer and riddled with sharp turns in shady places than he thought.

 

\--»

 

Eggsy is weirdly aware of how he’s being. It seems that he’s finally gained the competence to successfully appear as something else to Harry. Something different to the inner workings of his mind. It’s not as if he hasn’t done it before, it’s just that fooling other people isn’t like fooling _Harry_.

Eggsy doesn’t have a concrete goal yet, there’s too many to choose from. But it will be done.

He’s aware. Aware that he’s being cold and calculating and manipulative.

It’s _sickening_.

It’s fantastic.

They’re on the sofa when Harry seemingly remembers something and makes a big deal out of it.

“Eggsy, it slipped my mind," says Harry, standing and reaching for his briefcase, opening the main compartment.

How Eggsy manages to keep his expression neutral when Harry pulls out the black Macbook, he doesn’t know. But he does it. There's unexpectedly so many emotions at the sight of it that he doesn’t know how to feel.

“What."

It’s the only thing he can say.

Harry holds it out to him. “Figured you were bound to need it, thus, I brought it over.”

For all his newfound control, Eggsy finds himself taking it.

It’s heavy as fuck, and he’s missed it, he suddenly realises. The weight, the feel, the things that it can do--

“Why doesn't it have a password?”

Eggsy stills at Harry’s question. A cold kind of fear pierces through him and he tries to calm himself down by the fact that he's deleted his Internet history. He’s sure of it.

Isn't he?

“Eggsy?”

“It’s _your_ computer," Eggsy tells him, blank. “You lent it to me for school, why would I have a password?”

Harry stares at him, appearing almost disturbed. His mouth opens to speak, but nothing comes out the first few times.

“... _Eggsy_ ," Harry finally exhales, looking devastated, “You seem to be under the wrong impression." He partly sits on the armrest, aiming to meet Eggsy’s gaze. “This is _yours_. This is yours, and yours _alone_.”

Eggsy doesn't understand. “...But…”

“But what? Why would you think otherwise?”

“Because--" Eggsy stops. He doesn't know. Come to think of it, Harry _does_ have a laptop in his office, but--Suppose Eggsy just thought that was a PC and Harry wanted a Mac as a backup? And yeah, he just happened to leave it with Eggsy most of the time for school stuff to get some use out of it. People do that don’t they? They like having both for...reasons. And who knows with rich people?

But as he thinks back on it, that’s _dumb_. Why didn't Eggsy _realise_ that? Harry genuinely seems sincere, the infuriating bastard. Why didn't Eggsy know--

Something vibrates. He absently palms at it through his pocket before it dawns on him: It’s not his black and gold mobile--that’s in the other pocket.

Cavendish just texted him.

Eggsy’s brows furrow. “Dunno. I’m just dumb, I guess," He tells Harry to get it over with. But something terrible occurs to him too late and---The fucking porn link.

 _Fucking_ \--

He watches Harry carefully, trying to see past the partly disbelieving and sad expression.

_Pity, that’s what it is._

There are many ways this could go, but there’s no point in asking him about it. If he _did_ see something, Harry would lie to be polite and save him any more embarrassment today. Eggsy can’t trust him.

He palms at his other pocket. He needs to know if Yvonne sent that shit. Pronto. He needs to build up all kinds of believable lies and excuses, but there’s no use in the effort if she hasn't. Texting her would be too risky right now. He needs to call her.

“When are you leaving?” He finds himself asking.

Harry’s expression changes, concern and pity fading away, shoulders straightening, lips thinning.

Eggsy shouldn’t feel a thrill.

But what can he do other than keep his neutral mask of innocence?

“Eggsy,” Harry begins, toneless-- _dangerous,_ his mind whispers--and there it is again, that familiar arousal starting to course through Eggsy’s body. He manages not to outwardly react as Harry continues on. “If you want me to leave, you tell me to leave. Simple as that.”

Eggsy blinks. “That’s not what I said--Also, what happened to the lesson on public courtesy and the importance of ‘tact’ versus... _candid intention_?”

From the way Harry grinds his teeth, it’s a victory. Probably didn’t think it would all backfire so soon, did he? Good. S’nice to give him a taste of his own medicine.

“We are _not_ in _public_ , Eggsy.”

“Mmm. Right,” He humours him, nodding, doing his best not to look patronising whatsoever.

But really, he _is_.

“When it comes to _me_ , Eggsy, there’s no need for ‘tact’ or subtlety. Especially when we are alone. You need to be frank about what you want, you need to tell me what you _don’t_ want. If you want me to leave, then so it shall be.”

For a moment there is silence, and Eggsy pretends to be a bit chastised, biting his lip, relishing the pain and the way it makes him quietly _angrier_. “I didn’t say I wanted you to leave. I just…” He shrugs lightly, the pain of his shoulders adding to muted storm. “Dunno, wanted to know when you were gonna be ready for my mum, that’s all. You can stay for as long as you like.” He looks at Harry, reading the way he seems to be mollified about that, watching his expression slightly close up when Eggsy finishes, “I don’t care.”

Harry glances at his watch. “I’ll leave at seventeen thirty.”

 _Hmm_.

“M’kay.” He stares down at his laptop. What the fuck is he supposed to say to his mum once she finds out? She’s bound to. She does that thing where she goes into his room whether or not he’s there on the times she does laundry. It’s just cheaper to put their clothes together and get it done in one go.

Is he meant to hide it under his pillow for the rest of his life?

A part of him considers asking Harry.

Fuck no. Fuck him, that’s what.

Eggsy only gives him a small smile and raises his eyebrows. “What else do we have to get through?”

 

\--»

 

When Harry leaves, it’s admittedly a breath of fresh air.

Not that any air in London is fresh, much less _here_ where the Unwin flat is located.

The point is that people aren’t meant to stay cooped up in one single space for such a long time. If it weren’t for Eggsy’s shoulder, they probably would have been out and about. Harry would have taken him to museums and historical sites that even tourists aren’t privy to. And of course, _of course_ , Harry would have taken him to places to eat.

A lesson on etiquette in public settings and all that and so on.

Harry takes his mobile out and changes the setting from silent to vibrate before putting it back in his pocket.

It’s only when he’s sat in his office that he actually responds to messages from Merlin, Morgause and Quinlan. It occurs to him how bizarre it all is; There was once a time when he only had two numbers on his personal mobile.

Now, he checks in on Quinlan by phone call and suffers the thinly-veiled irked tone of petulance. Interestingly enough, he notes the way Quinlan subtly fishes for information by asking about his day and all similar manners of polite courtesy. Harry wonders what Eggsy had told him. Eggsy must have told him enough for Quinlan to warn Harry without breaking confidence, but he wonders just how specific it was.

Outside of that, he’s curious about what they talk about as well. The two have been friends for a few years now and even managed to keep up with each other despite the distance between them. Do they talk about what teenage boys talk about?

Girls and sex and inadvisable substances? That’s rather cliché, isn’t it? It doesn’t seem like something Quinlan would stand for.

But then again, Eggsy has this way about him that pushes people to make an exception. Even without their own knowledge.

Harry wants to face-palm at the memory of watching _Shrek 3_.

Upon the realisation that it was in a _public_ cinema with people having _seen_ him go into and out of a room meant for _Shrek 3,_ he gives into face-palming.

“ _Galahad?_ ” Quinlan questions, sounding displeased, “ _Are you even paying attention?_ ”

“Of course,” Harry tells him, debating whether or not to let him in on the newly developing plan of getting the Unwins a new place. Harry can do it by himself, but...he begrudgingly admits to himself that some assistance would be appreciated. Quinlan knows Eggsy well, so he would be a good source of a second opinion. He wants to get this right.

But Quinlan’s reaction could be unfavourable or suspicious and Harry doesn’t want that. While Harry had briefed him on the incident with Lee Unwin a few days after Quinlan had seen him in Hyde Park with Eggsy a few years ago to explain, he doesn’t know if that’s enough to quell any suspicions. Because admittedly, it might be suspect to some, the idea of buying someone a place to live.

It’s not as if using his guilt as a reason would entirely be a lie. If Lee Unwin was alive, his family would have had a better quality of life than they do now. Michelle wouldn’t have a need to frantically keep them afloat, sacrificing her time with Eggsy. Eggsy would have had _and_ taken several opportunities presented to him. He’d be a confident boy, not the kind with brazen arrogance put on. Lee would take days off and relish the time inbetween assignments to spend it with his family. Eggsy would eat a meal at a dinner table with his parents occupying the seats as they talk about things both important and inconsequential.

Eggsy would feel assured, Eggsy would feel loved, the way he should be.

“... _Did he...do something?_ ” Quinlan ventures carefully.

Harry presses his lips. “Perhaps.”

“ _...And what did you--_ ”

“Perhaps I’ll confiscate his mobile proper the next time he texts his girlfriend in the middle of a lesson,” Harry supplies. It doesn’t matter what Eggsy did--There’s no purpose in reminiscing. Harry put a stop to it before it escalated, before he himself could lose even more control. He’s still proud of that. “On a more important note, there is something I...wish to propose.”

“. _..And that would be…?_ ” Quinlan prompts, wary.

“First off, the stock-market seems to be doing well,” Harry begins, looking at the data on his laptop. “The economy’s doing fine. The UK GDP appears--”

“ _Uhuh…_ ”

“When would be the prime time to buy a property, in your...knowledgeable opinion?”

The silence stretches out for so long that Harry worries he’s disassociating. He glances at his watch to make sure.

“ _...Galahad,_ ” Quinlan utters, toneless. “ _You can get a professional consultant._ ”

 _Yes, but that’ll show on record_ , He doesn’t tell him.

“ _...Is this about...Eggsy?_ ”

Harry blinks, wondering if he had spoken without his own permission. If he did, he doesn't recall.

“What would give you that idea?” He asks, neutral.

After a brief pause, an infuriated groan _erupts_ , reverberating so _loudly_ that Harry pulls the mobile away from his ear, uncertain if he put the loudspeaker on by accident.

“ _For fuck’s sake, please-- **please** don’t tell me you’re buying him a house,_ ” Quinlan despairs.

Baffled and offended, Harry finds the need to defend himself, “Have you ever been to the Unwin flat? It’s like a _fishbowl--_ ”

“ _Oh my god--I can’t--I can’t deal with this right now--Elizabeth! Stop mauling Charles! Put your claws back where they belong._ ”

Harry frowns. “Are you still in the farm?”

“ ** _Yes_** _, I’m **still** in the farm, my--animals are here, who’s going to take care of them? Also, what the hell is going on in your mind? Buying him a house? How does that compute--_ ”

“To be fair, I never _said_ I was going to buy him a house,” Harry sniffs, backtracking, “You made that assumption yourself. Why would I buy him a house?”

“ _You practically confirmed it--Camilla! Out!_ Now _!_ ” Quinlan barks over the hissing and the squealing pig noises. “ _Goddammit_ ,” He exasperates, sounding miserable.

“Is this a terribly busy time for you?”

Quinlan sighs. “ _Galahad…_ ” He trails off, and Harry waits it out. “ _Look, I--Can I think about it?_ ”

“Of course,” Harry allows graciously, “We can reconvene at a later time. I have things to get to as well--”

There’s a bleat in the background and Quinlan huffs a soft laugh, “ _Alright, you little--_ ” He clears his throat, clearly attempting to sound composed. “ _Sorry, that was Henry, he’s--_ ”

Harry stills.

 _Henry_.

Does Eggsy talk to Quinlan about this ‘Henry’ fellow?

Harry opens his mouth to speak but Quinlan’s saying his goodbyes. “ _Till next time._ ”

The call cuts off.

Harry takes a deep calming breath.

He shakes off the unsettling feeling in favour of getting things done. He’ll worry about it later.

 

»

 

After a thorough shower, Harry walks into his wardrobe to simply stare at his clothes. Which is senseless, he already knows what he’s going to wear.

He’s supposed to pick up Michelle at the flat by twenty-thirty and their reservation is at a moderately upscale restaurant in the centre of London set for twenty-one hundred. As it is, it’s a little past nineteen-hundred.

But yes, perhaps Harry will be early. He’s known for being late and he’s simply ensuring that won’t happen here. It would leave a bad impression. Michelle’s self-esteem would flicker back to nothing and that would affect every aspect of her life, whether it’s as an employee, a friend, or a mother. Harry can’t have that.

So yes, he thinks he’ll arrive much earlier.

He blankly stares at the mirror as he buttons his shirt.

What could Eggsy be doing now?

Perhaps Harry will interrupt something--Which is simply an _unfortunate_ consequence, but alas, he has a valid reason to be there. It’s final. He’s going early.

Harry frowns at the navy velvet tuxedo hanging in front of him.

What if he sees something he doesn’t want to see?

He purses his lips. It doesn’t matter. He’s an adult. He can handle it. He’ll move on.

Harry finishes dressing up and exits to his bedroom. He stops by his bedside table and opens the drawer to check if the mobile Mycroft had given him has any more thinly-veiled threats to be worried about.

Thankfully not.

He’s about to close the drawer when he falters at the sight of the birthday card.

The warmth that rushes through Harry is so unbelievably _pathetic_ , especially when he runs his fingers on the designs of the card.

His brows furrow, and his hand is moving on its own accord when he pulls the drawer further, revealing the small box of a [bow-tie](http://i.imgur.com/sfBvi6h.jpg?2) in the back corner.

Ridiculous.

It’s perfect.

Harry goes back to his wardrobe to switch out his bow-tie.

And he does it with reverence.

Tonight, he’s going to have dinner with Michelle. It _might_ seem like a date to anybody else, but Harry knows the truth.

He belongs to Eggsy.

 

\--»

 

So Yvonne hasn’t sent it.

Thank fucking god. Eggsy needs less fucking stress in life.

“ _When are you returning to rehearsals? The contest is literally in like...a week or so,_ ” Yvonne huffs.

Laid out on the sofa, Eggsy scratches at his ear, irritated by the earpiece. It took him a while to find the little bugger, but it has its perks. He’s still speaking into the bottom of his mobile though, upside down like a walkie-talkie, just in case his voice isn’t clear enough. Also it makes him feel cool. “My shoulders are on their way to not being as fucked up as they were before, but the earliest I can probably commit is like...Monday.”

“ _Ugh. At this point I might as well do more ‘Ice-cream Pussy’ choreography just in case those shoulders are worse than you thought and you actually need surgery or something--_ ”

“Oi! That ain’t funny. But keep up with the _‘Ice-cream Pussy’_ , I swear that shit was made for you.” He switches his hold on his mobile and the ice-block, tending to his other shoulder. This shit really does help. The pain is manageable now.

“ _Speaking of shit made for me, it’s sent._ ”

“What?”

“ _The link, I sent it. Literally one second ago--_ ”

Eggsy scrambles for his laptop, ready to delete that shit.

 _“Watch it, I promise you it’ll be--_ ” She sighs, “ _The acting is_ **so** _\--Well, the girl isn’t too good at it, but this bloke, he just takes it so seriously, it really adds to the_ tension--”

“Yev, is this you trying to turn me on all the way from over there?” He teases.

She laughs. “ _I wasn’t, but if I am anyway, tsktsk, what can I do?_ ”

“You--”

“ _Ugh, imagine that though, me in your place, Mr. Hart dating my mum. That video is practically the outcome of that scenario,_ ” She shudders, and Eggsy starts to feel stupidly warm hearing her get all breathy about it.

Maybe he won’t delete that video after all.

“Is it really as good as you say it is?”

“ _Why? You gonna wank off to it?_ ”

He licks his lips. “Well, depends.”

God, how long has it been since he’s actually wanked off?

His mind goes blank. He can’t fucking remember.

He genuinely fucking _can’t_ and that’s just--Fucking hell.

Eggsy can feel it now, that steady arousal. It’s been _so_ fucking long.

What the fuck?

He didn’t even realise it.

Who the fuck doesn’t realise that shit?

God, just because Eggsy’s after a repressed bastard doesn’t mean _he_ has to be too.

Eggsy presses the ice-block against his neck and hisses. The fucking cold of it makes his body go even _hotter_ in response, fucking hell. Is this what Harry felt when Eggsy did it to him?

“ _Oh_ ,” Yvonne muses. “ _I see._ ”

“Do you?” He swallows, trying to keep it together.

“ _Tsktsk,_ ” She chides, but her voice is low, “ _You getting hot and bothered over that scenario of me and Mr. Hart?_ ”

“Depends--Which scenario? Go on, tell me.”

_Tell me how I can do it. Tell me how I can make him want me._

Eggsy will take anything right now. Anything. Jesus fucking christ, he’s never felt more _desperate--_

Belatedly, he hears the key in the door and he has to fight with himself because shit, that’s probably his mum coming home from work and he shouldn’t have started this in living room, for fuck’s sake--

Reaching to shut his laptop, he abruptly sits up and grabs it, trying to hide it in a pillow behind him. He glances up to see--

Eggsy’s breath _hitches_ at Harry fucking Hart in all his fucking glory, looking absolutely fucking _gorgeous_ that Eggsy can’t stop the fucking _hiss_ that leaves him.

“ _Oh--we’re getting somewhere, aren’t we?_ ”

Eggsy tries to get his breath back as he helplessly runs his gaze down Harry’s form, then back up again to notice--

Eggsy goes still, feeling himself close up. He grinds his teeth, feeling the indignant anger rise up inside.

This has got to be a fucking joke.

Eggsy works hard to keep his composure and not just fucking punch him on the face, yelling and screaming.

_He’s wearing **my** tie, when he’s going on a **date** with my **mum** , what the fucking **fuck** is this cruel arse joke--_

Yvonne’s asking him something, but he doesn’t even know what.

Eyes on Harry who just stands there, Eggsy murmurs into the phone, “Can’t. We should probably...come back to that, Yev. Unexpected guest.”

“Unexpected?" Harry's expression is neutral. "I’m meant to be here.”

“You’re _early_ ,” Eggsy tells him with a bit of steel colouring his tone. He works hard to dial it back. He knows he can do it, he did it earlier. He can do it again.

“ _Is that...who I think it is?_ ”

“Yeah, s’ _daddy_ ,” Eggsy drawls, laying back down on the sofa. He has to be calm, he has too look like everything’s fine. He has to lull him into a false sense of security. Then--

“May I sit?”

“ _...Oh my god. I wish I was you so hard right now._ ”

“If I tell you to keep standing, Mr. Hart, will you do it?”

“Of course.”

Eggsy hopes it’s subtle, the way his jaw clenches. He waves him off and rolls his eyes, acting casual. “Sit-- _Anyway_ , Yev--”

“ _Holy fuck, where’s he sitting? Because if it were me, and he had a good view, I’d do the ‘draw-me-like-one-of-your-French-girls’ pose from_ Titanic.”

Managing to keep his expression unchanged, Eggsy turns his head slightly to the backrest of the sofa, hoping it does enough to hide the oncoming flush of embarrassment. Because he’s all laid out on the sofa, just like that. “Don’t be cheeky,” He utters under his breath.

“ _Either that or just suck his cock-_ -”

“For fuck’s sake--” Paranoid, Eggsy instinctively chances a glance to find Harry sitting on the armchair right across from him, hands flat on the armrests, knees slightly parted. Just _watching._

 _Fuck_.

_What the fuck--_

Eggsy flushes _hotter_ , both in anger and in sexual frustration. He purses his lips. “Maybe we should do this later, Yvonne.”

“ _Aww, but--Okay, text yeah? I’ll be waiting._ ”

He holds Harry’s gaze. “Sure, babe.”

Eggsy shuts his mobile, waits for a beat, and opens it again, focusing on pretending to text. That’ll piss him off for sure. “So, you’re early. I doubt my mum would appreciate that.”

“Would you rather I be late instead? I doubt you’d appreciate that.”

Pursing his lips, Eggsy shuts his mobile again, turning to meet his gaze. “Look, she ain’t even here yet. When she comes in lookin’ all..stressed and frazzled from work, c’mon, no one likes to be seen that way, especially not by their date. You should know this, you’ve just taught me a lesson on a hundred dozen ways _not_ to embarrass people.”

Harry tilts his head, conceding. Instead of looking chastised, he looks a bit...proud. What the fuck is wrong with him, goddamn.

And what the fuck is wrong with _Eggsy_ that a part of him wants to preen about that?

“What would you like me to do?” Harry prompts, like it’s a fucking lesson review, “Is there a cupboard I can hide in before she arrives?”

Eggsy gets stupidly embarrassed about that and he shouldn’t be--Not everyone can have _two_ fucking storage rooms in _one_ level of their house.

“No,” Eggsy tells him simply, keeping his cool, “You can hide in my bedroom.”

Harry’s expression doesn’t change one bit--And Eggsy considers that maybe, _maybe_ that speaks more than anything.

“...I’m afraid I’ll pass on that for now,” Harry finally murmurs.

Reality catches up with Eggsy and he realises that despite the sting of rejection, he’s relieved, because his room is a mess and it’s ugly and it’s really small so Eggsy wouldn’t, all fantasies aside. His pride is too much. Thankfully, he doesn’t have to reply to that because his mobile buzzes and he simply presses a button on his earpiece, eyes still on Harry. “Yeah?”

“ _Does he look nice?_ ”

Eggsy bites his lips, aroused and annoyed. “...Yeah...” He admits, voice low, “...I mean...if you’re into that.”

“ _Tell me?_ ”

Huffing softly, Eggsy averts his gaze. He feels Harry watching him anyway. “Can’t. M’not alone right know, you know that,” He keeps his voice down, pretending it’s enough that Harry can’t hear even though he’s right _there_.

Yvonne whines in protest. Eggsy finds himself hushing her softly, “Shhh. I know, I know.”

Fucking hell, he should have wanked off right after Harry left earlier, now he has to suffer at least another half-hour of blue balls, this is fucking ridiculous. How long has it fucking been? Just trying to think about it agitates him more.

His eyes cut away to the coffee table, an excuse, really--He can see everything below Harry’s face, see the fine details of his shirt, see the way his fingers splay wide, see the way the tips of his fingers imperceptibly _press_ into the armrests. Eggsy licks his lips.

“Listen, Yev, I gotta go, yeah? Apparently, talking on the phone in the presence of a guest is _rude_ \--Don’t want daddy to get disappointed now, do we?”

She laughs, but she’s clearly turned on. “ _Yeah, okay. You call back, you hear? You better, I swear to god--_ ”

“Mhm,” Eggsy says, relishing the way Harry’s fingers press harder, wishing they were on him somehow. On his hips, on his wrists, on his _throat--_

Fuck--He shuts his eyes as the arousal overtakes him.

He can’t fucking do this. He can’t.

Eggsy abruptly sits up, opening his eyes and taking the laptop behind him to set it on his lap. He grabs his notebook from the coffee table and piles that on too, along with the ice-block. Christ, the pressure on his cock is fucking _heaven_. “I’mma clean up,” He utters through gritted teeth, “I don’t wanna stress her out more when she gets here.”

Carrying his things, he stands and moves to set them on the kitchen counter. Cleaning up doesn't take more than five or so minutes, wiping counters and making sure dry plates are put away proper. He even braves going back to the living area to bend over and wipe at the coffee table. He thanks his sweatpants for giving his cock the cover he needs while showing off his arse.

'Cos _fuck_ Harry Hart, that's why.

After that, he quickly goes back to the kitchen and switches out the ice-block for a colder one.

One of his mobiles vibrates. Tsk, right, he forgot to get back to Cavendish earlier. Something about a modeling trial over the weekend.

“I’mma go in my room now,” Eggsy feels the need to announce, staring at the freezer, “I don’t wanna be here when you get all gentlemanly with her or something--Gross.”

“I’ve told you many times before, there’s no need to worry--”

“Yeah? You ain’t gonna kiss her or nothing?” He drawls, challenging, shutting the freezer harder than he needs to.

“Of course not, Eggsy.” Harry sounds much closer. Fuck.

Eggsy turns to see him on the other side of the counter. “Not even a kiss on the cheek?”

Harry opens his mouth to speak, but then he _pauses_ , and Eggsy--Eggsy fucking goes _mental._ Harry raises a calming hand. “To be fair, there are many kinds of kisses that are platonic--”

Eggsy can’t help the large expulsion of breath that leaves him, enraged and disbelieving, “ _Ff_ \--Yeah?” He mocks, baring his teeth as he leans forward, hissing, “Fucking kiss me, then.”

The stilted silence stretches on and Harry presses his lips together. “...It’ll be no more than a kiss on the hand, Eggsy, a kiss on the cheek at most--”

Eggsy scoffs again, hoping it doesn’t sound as pathetically _miserable_ as it does, “Fuck you.”

He grabs his things and marches his way to his room, slamming the door.

 

_\--_

 

Gripping the edges of the counter, Harry tries to calm himself down.

Something _always_ has to go wrong, doesn’t it?

It’s not that he was trying to make Eggsy jealous--First of all, Eggsy wouldn’t have the _ability_ to be jealous because that would mean--And _second_ , Harry has no right to feel vindictive about suggestive phone calls with Yvonne Jansen. He doesn’t have the right to be jealous, he-- _Third_ , it’s not as if it’ll be a completely _boring_ dinner date, that would reflect badly on him and more importantly, that would likely discourage Michelle from any further attempts at social interaction with other people.

So yes, he’ll be the perfect gentleman. He’ll take her out, and she will enjoy herself. She deserves to.

It doesn’t have to mean anything romantic, he’ll eventually get to find an excuse that wouldn’t offend or hurt her. He’s considered using the ‘I’m not interested in women’ excuse before--but he knows how some people react to such an announcement.

She might not let him be alone with Eggsy anymore. If not that, she’d definitely suspect something. She’s bound to. Harry can’t have that. He’s on his way to recovery, he can still salvage this.

 

\--

 

Throwing his laptop on the bed, Eggsy pulls the green mobile out. He doesn’t even bother turning the light on. It’s gonna get dark real soon, but it doesn’t really matter. The sky will paint his room shades of purple and orange once the sun sets and that’s always something to watch.

 

**17\. 08. 2007 - Banana Man:**

_Truly sorry to give it on short notice, but I need an answer by tonight._

 

Eggsy doesn’t even have to think about it. He’ll take anything right now.

 

 _‘Yeah, guv. That’d be great!’_ Eggsy types blindly, palming his cock through his sweatpants, easing the pressure.

 

His mobile vibrates again. Tsk.

 

**17\. 08. 2007 - Banana Man:**

_Perfect! Saturday or Sunday afternoon?_

 

 _‘Saturday--Sorry about the late reply, my mum’s boyfriend was bossing me around all day :X_ ’

 

Eggsy intends to put his mobile down but _again_ it fucking vibrates. Jesus fuck, why can’t people leave him alone?

 

**17\. 08. 2007 - Banana Man:**

_That’s terrible, Gary. At least you’ll spend some time away from him when you’re with me. I’ll give you snacks and everything._

 

 _‘U know me too well, guv. U da best,’_ Eggsy types, pursing his lip in distaste.

 

Finally putting it down, he looks around the mess that is his room. Frustrated, he starts cleaning up and fusses to make it somewhat presentable instead. As much as he fucking wants to wank off, his mum’s really bound to come home soon and he just can’t do it when she’s in the flat. That’s just fucking _gross_. He can hold out and wait till they’re both gone.

Where the fuck is his mum anyway?

As it is, it’s a little past eight in the evening. Harry’s supposed to pick her up at eight-thirty, so she should be here in a few minutes to rush a shower and get dressed. This is just ridiculous. Who’d be late for a date with Harry Hart? Tsk.

The irritation makes him do his tasks quicker but it’s _such_ a shoddy job that it makes him even more angry.

When something vibrates, he thinks it’s Cavendish again, but it’s actually from a different mobile.

It’s his mum.

 

**17\. 08. 2007 - Mum:**

_Is he there yet?? Shit I’ve been tryin to text/call but he doesn’t seem to pick up--Something’s up at work idk what to do imma be super late!!_

 

Eggsy stares, heart starting to pound heavier and heavier.

Shit.

Nothing’s stopping him now, is there?

 

\--

 

Frowning, Harry starts to plan where to hide. It _was_ rather inconsiderate of him to arrive _too_ early. Eggsy was right, Michelle _would_ be embarrassed if he saw her before she prepared herself.

He could always leave and stand somewhere out the building for the next twenty minutes or so.

But surely there’s somewhere in here he can hide in? The prospect of going outside looking like he does might invite some trouble with the locals. Harry’s quite fond of this tuxedo, it would be a shame if it was wrinkled or tainted in a scuffle. Killing a man and hiding a body just for that simply seems tedious--and in such a limited amount of time as well. Not logically worth the effort.

There’s nothing here in the common areas of the Unwin flat he could possibly hide in.

He peeks through the hallway and decides to make his way to the bathroom.

Flipping on the light-switch, he truly sees how small this space is. It’s enough for a shower, a toilet, a towel rack and a single sink counter with a cabinet.

Harry purses his lips. Eggsy’s next home will at the _very least_ have a bathtub. The space will definitely be larger overall.

He turns the light off. There’s no use. If Michelle gets home, she might take a shower first and that would be a very uncomfortable situation.

When he leaves the bathroom, he pauses. The door a few feet away seems to be open a small fraction. Merely a sliver.

Didn’t Eggsy _shut_ his door?

 

°

 

It's inevitable really. To get to and from the bathroom, one has to pass by his bedroom and vice-versa on the way back.

Eggsy wishes he was wearing jeans so he could pull down the zipper slow. That way, the sound of it would have been loud against the stark silence. And then surely, even with his own footsteps, there's no way Harry _wouldn’t_ be able to hear it.

But no, he’s laying in bed wearing sweatpants, so he has to settle for pulling at the string with his left hand and feeling himself with his right through the fabric.

He inhales sharply.

Belatedly, he remembers his Ikea shark.

Suddenly guilty, he quickly hides Galahad out sight behind the pillows.

"Cover your ears, mate," He mutters, also remembering to take his shirt off, cringing at the pain of his shoulders before eagerly returning to his task.

With the strings loose at last, he gets to finally put his hand down his pants--and _fuck_ , it’s almost shameful how much fucking precome there is.

He tamps down a whine. God, it’s been so fucking long. This is gonna be embarrassingly short, isn’t it?

Either way, he’s gonna fucking try his best and make it last. Abruptly, he reaches for his mobile with his free hand and flips it open, setting it next to his ear for show. He should probably call Yvonne for real because she’d be at his ear, spurring him on in that voice, telling him all these fucking scenarios that could easily be Eggsy and Harry.

But that doesn’t feel right. Maybe next time.

This time, it’s only Eggsy. Eggsy and Harry.

He can just pretend anyway. He has scenarios of his own too. He’s been thinking about them for quite a while.

Eggsy times it so perfectly. When he hears the footsteps outside hesitate, he palms himself a little harder. It’s so fucking _good_ that his body just _twitches_ , left arm jerking, elbow hitting the wall his bed is pushed up against. His initial grunt of pleasure mixes with pain.

It has the desired effect of Harry slightly pushing the door with concern on his lips as Eggsy breathes out a ragged laughter cut short by his entrance. He shuts his eyes, pretending not to have seen.

 _Fuck_ , his adrenaline goes through the fucking _roof_ \--

And despite the fear, despite the nerves, Eggsy has never been more turned on the way he is now.

“Yeah,” He sighs softly, tamping down the victorious hiss he wants to let out. The fucking _bastard_ , Eggsy hates him. He thinks he can just come into his life and ruin him and get away with it? Fuck that. Eggsy _always_ fights back.

Harry stops frozen, right hand stuck on the other side of the doorway. He’s ready to use it to propel himself out of there any moment. It’s such a _devastatingly_ breathtaking sight.

As Eggsy remembers what Harry looks like, all suited up fancy and fucking suave, Eggsy fails to swallows a moan at the image in his head. The idea that Harry’s just right there, frozen, unable to leave.

Fuck--waves of goosebumps just keep coming. Just like the precome he keeps spreading on his cock to make it slick with every stroke.

He imagines it, the sight of Harry all suited up and in between his legs. Jesus.

 _Come on, come on make a fucking move,_ Eggsy wants to yell. The only legitimate problem with him making a move would be the fact that Eggsy genuinely wouldn’t know if he’d tell him to keep the whole suit on or not.

And Harry knows he should leave. He should leave immediately, but he can’t--he _can’t_.

He’s doing his absolute best but it’s not him anymore--he’s not in control. His own body won’t follow his commands. He’s even wetting his lips with his tongue as Eggsy huffs in desperate discontent, pushing the sweatpants down lower with his left hand, revealing his cock and the way he has his fist around it.

Eggsy gasps. He can feel him watching, he can _sense_ it and his blood fucking courses through his veins like _electricity_.

It’s pathetic how close he is. Knees bent and feet planted on the mattress, Eggsy just can’t help thrusting his hips up, fucking into his fist.

But hell, it’s been _months_ hasn’t it? _Months_.

Practically since Harry came back into his life.

Jesus fucking Christ, Eggsy heaves, trying not to _sob_. It’s been that fucking long since he came.

That’s bloody  _insane_.

He whines.

He needs this. He _needs_ this.

He fucking _deserves_ it.

Eggsy pants in starts and fits, shuddering.

And Harry hates it. He has never hated his own name so much in his existence. He hates the way it sounds as if _that_ is what Eggsy’s moaning, the first syllable of his _name_ , cut off by absolute mindless pleasure. Over and over again.

The sparks of red-hot arousal _terrify_ him.

Eggsy bites his lip, doing his best not to fucking break and _beg_. He wants to _taunt_ him, he wants to goad, ‘ _Do you know why you keep coming over, Mr. Hart?_ ’ Eggsy would say it slow and confident, lying through his gritted teeth, _‘Do you know how much you want me?_ ’

“Oh my god,” He can’t help but groan, desperate as he thumbs at the head of his cock. “Fuck, _fuck_ \--” He gasps, short of breath, _shaking_ as he reaches down with his left hand to give it all that he’s got. He’s sweating like mad even though it’s getting late and the weather isn’t that hot anymore. Eggsy is fucking _burning_.

Fuck. It’s starting to get dark outside, isn’t it? But Harry can see him, can’t he? Can’t he?

When Eggsy opens his eyes to the ceiling, it’s a bit dim, but _yes--_ Once his eyes adjust, it’s clear, it’s clear that there's enough light for him to be seen the way that he wants to be, and he’s _so_ fucking _close_ \--His hazy eyes cut away to where Harry is, still by the door, frozen, a perfect sight partly between Eggsy’s knees and _fuck_ \---

“Fuck,” Eggsy’s breath hitches, startled by the added rush of _heat_ that threatens to kill him at the sight, because this is _real_ , this is happening, and Eggsy chokes on his own breath, “ _Harry_ \--Fff--” Eggsy comes, cock _throbbing_ non-stop. He whines, helpless, and he has to shut his eyes because he shoots so fucking _hard_ his own come is not only on his chest or on his neck--it’s also on his cheeks and on his lips.

It’s a sight that Harry will never forget, Eggsy spent and laid out trying to get his breath back in the darkening room, walls coloured by the setting sun.

An enchanting sight he _knows_ he will never forget along with the sound of his name uttered from those lips in the peak of pleasure--A sound that he _knows_ will haunt him until the day he dies--And that is why, once he’s gained control of his own body, he takes a step back and makes his way toward the exit, the weight of his watch on his left wrist _heavy_ in reminder of his options.

Eggsy’s barely cognisant until he hears the front door shut, the sound of it reverberating so loudly that it leaves him cold.

 

 

 


	29. 28

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Boring.  
> trust me.  
> boring.
> 
> except manipulative Eggsy

 

 

**I**

 

 

Eggsy doesn't know how long he stays there, but it’s been long enough that the colours of the sunset leaves his room and leaves him in the dark. The reality of what he’s done dawns on him in parts as he lays there in the silence.

Finally, he moves to clean himself up, sluggish, the twinge of dread settling in the pit of his stomach. The troubling feeling worsens as minutes go by, as he washes his hands in the sink, as he sits on the sofa, elbows on his knees as he leans forward, hunched, hands on his mouth.

What the fuck--Is this guilt?

Because if it is, it’s not fucking fair, it’s not--

He hears the keys in the door, turning, and--Eggsy’s stomach churns as his mum comes in, hurried and distracted and... _excited_.

It’s _devastating_. Eggsy wants to die.

“Eggsy!" She huffs, happy, “I’ve got good news--”

“Mum," Eggsy tries, trying not to visibly shake, “Look, I don't think he’s--"

“Gotta take a quick shower first--”

“Mum--" Eggsy falters and he doesn't know what do.

What the fuck was he thinking? His attack didn't even turn out the way he wanted It to. What did he think was gonna happen? Getting advice from porn shouldn’t be a thing--What, did he think Harry was gonna go into the room and... _join in_ when Eggsy was touching himself?

Jesus fuck.

Maybe Eggsy’s been wrong the whole time. Maybe there’s nothing going on after all, maybe he’s fucking delusional.

If he wasn't, wouldn't Harry have given in?

“Eggsy? Did you hear what I said?" His mum frowns at him.

“No," He admits, heart pounding, “But your date, it’s--"

“Oh, yeah--Apparently his mobile was on silent the whole time, he apologised and said that he got called in for work last minute--important stuff, y’know? And I was like... _whew_ ," She huffs awkwardly, going on to disappear to the bathroom.

Eggsy stares, guilty and bewildered.

 

 

»»

 

 

It’s arse o’clock in the morning and Eggsy’s on the earliest tube of the day, switching lines for Gloucester Road.

He just has to know, he just has to gauge for himself what the situation is.

And then he’ll make a move from there.

He wants to talk to someone about this. Someone being obviously Quinlan--but he can't. Eggsy can't do that. Eggsy fucked up. He might've just taken it a bit too far. Even if he _did_ tell him, there would only be scolding and life lessons and maybe even several days of the silent treatment.

For now, it's a secret. His and Harry's.

Shaking the nostalgia off as he breaks into Harry’s house, he’s surprised to sense something going on. Setting his shoes to the side, he takes a moment to be still just in time to hear the utensils stop making noise.

Eggsy sniffs at the air, trying to guess what’s cooking.

He goes through the hallway instead of living room to get to the dining area, peeking his head through the doorway to look past the kitchen. Through the windowless opening, Eggsy sees Harry with his back turned to him in front of the range cooker, unmoving. He’s wearing a typical white button-down shirt, the usual dark trousers and an apron. He’s probably wearing his tie too.

Eggsy hopes he’s not going to work today.

Gradually, Harry sets the spatula down.

Eggsy stupidly feels the need to speak first. “...Erm, it’s me.”

“Yes. I know.”

“...Yeah? Do you? How d’you know?”

The response is quiet and toneless.

“Because you’re still alive." Harry slowly turns and blinks, slightly shaking his head, seemingly snapping out of it. God, Eggsy wants to drag him to bed--and not even the sexy kind. Harry genuinely looks like he needs it. “Apologies, did we have an engagement today?”

Eggsy shuts his mouth and rethinks his strategy. “No, m’sorry. Suppose it was rude of me to just barge in, huh?”

Harry only stares and Eggsy decides to cautiously move towards the entryway to the kitchen, simultaneously unsettled and turned on by the way Harry’s eyes track him. “Look--" Eggsy takes a deep breath, willing himself to stay where he is five feet away. “What happened yesterday--what I did, is that why you didn’t go on the date?”

There is a long silence. Eggsy forces himself to wait, watching him carefully.

“...‘Yesterday’," Harry repeats, flat.

Eggsy’s brows furrow. “Yes.”

“...Ah, well, yesterday I was called into work," Harry tells him, sounding like he’s reciting off an instruction manual. “Speaking of which--Today, as well, I--" Harry turns back to the range cooker, turning the dials off.

“Yeah? What time?”

“Soon.”

“How soon?”

Harry slowly turns towards him, brows slightly raising in question.

Eggsy huffs, biting his lip. “...Don’t you wanna…” He scours his brain, desperate. “...teach me a lesson?”

For a moment, all Harry seems to do is stare. Eggsy swallows at the intensity of it despite how unreadable his expression is.

“...Nothing would bring me greater pleasure,” Harry says, low, sending waves of goosebumps on Eggsy’s skin.

“Yeah?” Eggsy breathes.

“Yes--But _work_ , Eggsy, I need--” He cuts his gaze away, focusing on putting the food on plates.

Eggsy groans. “C’mon--We have time, don’t we?”

The plate makes a rather discernible noise as Harry sets it back down on the counter--one of the things Eggsy remembers as a no-no from one of their lessons before.

“If you’re so insistent," Harry begins, “Do set the table. We’ll begin with a continuation on table etiquette.”

That’s not really what Eggsy had in mind, but he’ll take what he can get.

And so he ends up setting the table in the most elaborate way he was taught to. With Harry pulling out the fancy plates and utensils one after another, there really isn’t a choice.

Eggsy sits in his usual place, waiting for instructions as Harry stands by the head of the table. “What now?”

“Eat," Harry orders simply. Which doesn’t really make sense considering this is supposed to be a lesson.

“You gonna eat with me?" Eggsy asks, slightly becoming uncomfortable now, because Harry’s just standing there behind the chair instead of sitting.

“No. I will watch," says Harry, and Eggsy raises his eyebrows. “I will correct you as needed.”

“Correct me?" Eggsy questions, starting to put some food on his plate, “What’s there to correct?”

“First of all, _posture_ ," Harry announces, crisp, and Eggsy freezes. “Sit up.”

Eggsy’s a bit slow, but his body follows the order before he even realises it. Despite it all, he finds himself waiting, quiet.

“Proceed," Harry grants, and Eggsy does.

It goes on like that for a few minutes, Eggsy making little mistakes about which utensils to use for what--and even if he wasn't doing it on purpose just to be a spiteful little shit, testing how eerily calm Harry’s corrections are, the bunch of silverware really all do the same damn thing, even if there’s at least three sets of spoons, forks and knives.

Which is fucking ridiculous. Eggsy’s here for a reason, there’s no use messing about and wasting any more time. This shit’s giving him anxiety.

“Hey, look, about last night--”

“ _Focus_.” The underlying steel in Harry’s voice should _not_ be a _thing_. “You're here for lessons. Sit up, Eggsy. Always keep your posture. The form speaks volumes. Learn to be accustomed enough to be relaxed and natural while you’re doing it, enabling you to focus on your surroundings at any given time,” Harry goes on and on and _on_ , running Eggsy’s patience thin.

“First of all, _you_ relax. Second--You can’t be serious.” Eggsy complains, huffing, “All throughout I gotta sit like this? I’m just trying to eat here. Also, for fuck’s sake, sit down and eat _with_ me, you literally cooked without knowing I’d come over, so hurry up before I finish everything.”

Harry utters the words, enunciating, “... **Sit. Up.** ”

Frustrating arousal aside, Eggsy's just pissed off. This whole thing is fucking stupid.

Irritated, he sets his utensils down with a firm sound, staring straight at Harry. “You want me to keep me sitting like this? You might as well tie me up, goddamn.”

Harry stares at him, unreadable. “Tie you up with what?”

Eggsy’s gaze automatically cuts down to Harry’s tie. Despite his heartbeat getting heavier--because it wasn’t even a _serious_ suggestion for fuck’s sake--Eggsy meets Harry’s eyes again, raising an eyebrow and tilting his head. A challenge.

Eventually, Harry looks away. “Don’t be preposterous. There’s no need for such things. I have confidence in your abilities.”

“But it’s better that way, isn't it?” Eggsy finds himself insisting, scavenging for whatever excuse. “I’ve seen them fancy programmes on telly--Sometimes it’s books on the head as they walk straight ahead, sometimes they get tied to the back of the chair to get used to sitting up-- _C’mon_ ,” He taunts, “Tie me up, Harry, you know you want to.”

It looks as if Harry will refuse again, but his hand is already going up to undo the knot of his own tie. The movements seem smooth except for the subtle sharpness that comes with the end of each tug and--What the fuck.

What the fuck did Eggsy get himself into? Holy fucking shit, he was just goading him, Eggsy didn’t really think--

Tie in hand, Harry moves towards him until he disappears from Eggsy’s line of sight as he stands behind Eggsy’s chair.

Fuck.

_Fuckfuckfuck._

“Changed your mind?”

“No."

Eggsy hopes he sounds steady. ‘Cos _fuck_ , he feels like shaking. Especially when Harry’s hands hold the ends of the tie, going over Eggsy's head, moving to set the tie on the front, against Eggsy’s shoulders.

Fuck.

Eggsy can fucking _feel_ him behind him, leaning down slightly, moving forward, the side of his face near Eggsy’s as he looks down, sliding the tie lower and--

The fabric brushes over his nipples through his shirt and--what the fuck?

 _Whatthefuckwhatthefuckwhatthefuck_.

Why the _fuck_ does that turn him on, they’re not even sensitive---Are they?

Breathing through his nose, Eggsy works to appear calm, even as Harry begins to _pull_ , forcing Eggsy to lean back against the backrest of the chair.

Shit, Eggsy’s fucking past a semi as it is. And when he feels Harry’s mouth against his head, when he feels his breath against his hair, he starts to wonder if he can come untouched.

“Comfortable?" Harry murmurs, deceivingly gentle when Eggsy can feel the imperceptible sharpness of his tugs as he ties the tie behind the chair.

“...Yeah," Eggsy croaks.

“Are you scared?”

“No.” Eggsy’s more scared that he means it.

“Interesting. You sound as if you are.”

“Shit," Eggsy can’t help but exhale, “Is this for yesterday? Is this payback--Is this punishment--”

“Nonsense," Harry interrupts, “This is table etiquette part two. You will eat like this.”

Eggsy tests the strength of the tie, straining forward. It has a tiny bit of leeway. A tiny bit.

Harry clicks his tongue. “You shan’t crane your neck forward either." His hand settles on the crook of Eggsy’s neck, slowly pulling him back, firm.

Eggsy manages not to hiss. “Will you eat breakfast with me now?”

“...Yes. Yes, I suppose I will.”

Things go on like it’s fucking _normal_ and Eggsy doesn’t know if Harry’s in denial or what, but goddamn--

Somehow Eggsy gets to wait for a few minutes, long enough for Harry to get settled and probably have his guard down. “So...are we just gonna pretend last night didn’t happen?”

Harry doesn't even seem to have heard him, chewing on and staring straight ahead.

Eggsy opens his mouth to repeat his question--which is stupid, yeah, ‘cos he’s literally tied up right now which means he can’t readily escape if this conversation turns embarrassing or awkward--but Harry sets his utensils down carefully.

“That would be, perhaps, for the best.”

Stomach sinking, Eggsy can’t really find the words to say. To be fair, he did consider this outcome--Well--if ‘consider’ means that it crossed his mind briefly. But now that this...rejection seems clear, Eggsy’s just simply confused. He doesn’t know what to feel and he doesn't know what he did wrong.

Didn't he practically offer himself up?

His lips thin as Harry continues.

“I would like to formally apologise for anything that I’ve done, for any intrusions--I should not have entered your room without your permission," Harry insists, firm, “And my actions, my _inactions_ , stemmed from shock and--”

“It’s fine," Eggsy cuts through it, unable to hear any more.

“No, it is not ‘fine’--"

“You’re making a big deal out of it--You wanna forget, then _fine_ , forget--You said it yourself, yeah? We’ll all _laugh_ about it sometime in the future,” Eggsy drawls, bitter as he slices his food rougher than necessary, head held high.

“Eggsy, there’s nothing to laugh about--I do hope Miss Jansen understood the situation.”

“What.”

“You--” Harry stops, staring down at his plate. It takes a few seconds before he speaks. “You were on your mobile when you--” He stops again, swallowing. “You said my name.”

Silence blankets the room. It feels like the temperature’s gone down by a few degrees but Eggsy's internally _flushing_ with something like shame. Nevertheless, he stands by it.

“Yeah--yeah, I did.” He waits for Harry to meet his gaze.

“And what did you tell her? Did she understand the situation?”

Eggsy blinks. “What?”

“The truth is the easiest in that scenario; You were surprised and startled when you saw me, thus, you said my name when--Did she understand?”

 _Fucking bastard,_ Eggsy wants to hiss at him. But it’s not like Harry’s wrong. It _was_ partly that. Eggsy set it up to make it look that way, a contingency plan in case he needed an excuse. Except it’s now backfiring on him.

“It--” Eggsy stops and starts over. “She hung up before I--it’s fine. She didn’t hear it. It’s fine. We’re fine.”

Harry nods, slightly relaxing at that. Slightly. “Good, that’s--Good.”

It’s silent again except for their utensils and Eggsy forces himself to remain calm. “About my mum, are you gonna reschedule--”

“No.”

Eggsy hates himself for feeling good about that, hates himself for being guilty and indignant at the same time. “But--”

“Perhaps an afternoon lunch. My schedule will be...different from now on.”

“So you’ll still--”

“It’s between your mother and I,” Harry states, firm and unyielding, “Do not make it out to be more than it is. We have things to discuss--Adult things that you cannot be a part of,” He announces, and Eggsy’s stomach sinks as he begins to feel himself go cold with that familiar bitter indignance.

“Yeah, ‘cos I’m a kid, right?” He baits, already thinking of things to ruin him with.

“Yes. Exactly--”

Eggsy scoffs, biting down hard on his tongue as he looks away. “We’ll see--”

Harry talks over him. “It will not be romantic, nor will it be sexual of any nature. This will be my last clarification of this issue. I’m getting tired of repeating myself. I am not interested in your mother. I have other more pressing matters that require my attention.”

“...Did you just insult my mum?” Eggsy narrows his eyes. “She not worth your attention, is that it--”

“Do _not_ pick a fight with me,” Harry utters, severely calm, “Do not _taunt_ me, not over such _insignificant_ things.”

Eggsy bites his lip, the pain anchoring him through the waves of arousal. “Or what? You already have me tied up, Harry. You can do whatever you want, I ain’t scared of you.”

He desperately wants Harry to meet his gaze, but Harry’s looking down at his plate, expressionless, before he piles up his utensils on his plates and begins to stand, making his way to the kitchen.

Eggsy huffs, starting to clean up as well, “You gonna untie me or what?”

“Untie yourself.” The sound of rushing water cuts through the tension. “Come up to my office, I have an assignment for you before I go.”

Pursing his lips through the disbelief and the annoyance, Eggsy reaches back with both hands, trying to get a feel for the knot of the tie on the back of the chair. There’s a dull twinge of soreness on his shoulders as he keeps at the movements, but he’s determined. Harry’s almost finished with his dishwashing and that spurs him on, Eggsy can’t let him get away. “Do I get a reward if I get myself outta this?”

“There’s no question whether or not you will.”

Eggsy huffs, getting a bit desperate. “But I think you forgot about my shoulders--” He resorts to shamelessness. “--It hurts, daddy.”

A piece of silverware clatters in the sink. The water shuts off. Eggsy hears the fridge being opened and closed and he senses Harry walking towards him.

At the sudden feel of _cold_ around his shoulders, Eggsy gasps. “What the _fuck_?”

Harry adjusts the soft rectangular ice-pack and it’s grazing Eggsy’s neck now, making his breath hitch. A rush of _heat_ runs through his body, attempting to counteract the cold.

“There you go,” Harry murmurs, “Good luck.”

Once Eggsy manages to get his breath back, he calls after Harry’s fading footsteps, “You fucking arsehole! I’mma get you back so _hard_ , you won’t even fucking know--Oh my god.”

 

 

»

 

 

Marching his way up to Harry’s office, Eggsy doesn’t even knock.

“Congratulations,” Harry murmurs absently, busy with his laptop. “Took you seven minutes and thirteen seconds. We’ll work on it.”

“Fuck you.”

In all honesty, Eggsy’s pretending to be more pissed off than he actually is--He’s pretty proud of himself for getting out of that.

“Thirty-one,” Harry announces.

Eggsy drags the chair from the corner of the room and moves it up sideways against Harry's desk. He sits carelessly, adjusting the ice-pack on his shoulders. “Nine.”

Harry stops, blinking. “Pardon?”

“Something like that.” Eggsy waves a hand, “You've interrupted me a lot today. That was _very_ rude, Harry,” Eggsy frowns with something like disappointment, mocking, “Also, it wasn’t _really_ seven minutes ‘cos I had to clean up and wash the dishes and you _just_ left me there. _So much rudeness_. The hug quota is filling up.”

Harry opens his mouth--ready to argue, no doubt--but then he closes it and taps a leather notebook on the desk instead. On top of it is a fancy-looking pen. Harry slides the whole thing over to him.

Eggsy raises an eyebrow. “You already gave me a journal.”

“This is for penmanship.”

Eggsy’s other eyebrow follows suit. “Wow--That’s all I can really say.”

“Try it out. Write something for me for the sake of assessment.”

Dirty thoughts immediately plague Eggsy’s mind. Why does Harry make it so easy?

Elated, Eggsy keeps his eyes on him as he opens the notebook. “Anything?”

“...Do keep it appropriate.”

Damn. Foiled again.

“I don’t know why you need me to,” Eggsy huffs, staring down at the paper. The quality’s fucking top notch, he can just tell. “You’ve already seen my handwriting, _Mr. Hart._ ”

“Humour me.”

“Yes, sir.” Eggsy mutters, uncapping the lid of the pen, which--Shit. It’s a fountain pen. “Err, can’t we start with something more simple? Like a ball-point maybe?”

Harry’s expression is unreadable. “No.”

Eggsy purses his lips. He’s gonna embarrass himself, he’s sure of it. He attempts to stall. “You want it in cursive or…?”

“Both. The right pages are for cursive, the left side is for plain. I also want you to leave a bit of space between lines in case I have any comments or corrections.”

Sighing, Eggsy complains, “You coulda got me the ones with lines in them. This is all gonna be crooked.”

“We’ll work on it. Proceed.”

Lightly gnawing on his lip, Eggsy tries to think of what to write. Jesus fucking christ, this shouldn’t be difficult. He looks up to find Harry’s gaze resolutely fixed on the notebook and the pen.

Fuck it.

 _‘Will I get them hugs: Y/N?_ ,’ Eggsy writes on both pages, following Harry’s instructions before he slides the notebook over to him.

Harry stares down at it and Eggsy eagerly watches him. With his own pen, Harry points at a letter. “This lowercase ‘I’ in cursive could be better--The loop is larger than it should be--there shouldn't even be a loop in the first place--it could easily be mistaken as a lowercase ‘L’.”

Unamused, Eggsy narrows his eyes. “Okay, first of all, there’s a dot on top, it shouldn’t be a big deal. Second, answer my question.”

Harry simply circles the _‘N’_ and Eggsy gapes, talking over whatever bullshit lesson he was gonna spew out ‘cos--

”Oi, hang on.” Eggsy raises a hand, “Nuh-uh, we talked about this. We _negotiated_.”

“Did we ever reach an agreement? I do believe you were too busy texting your girlfriend to pay attention--”

“Oh my god--” He takes the ice-pack off his shoulders and sets it on the corner of the desk in frustration, “Do you have selective amnesia? You--”

“It’s a skill I’m rather desperate to attain at the moment--”

“Oi! You said you would think about it--”

“And I did. I decline your proposal.”

Eggsy’s left staring at him in absolute shock and silence. Eventually, the familiar icy calm washes over him.

He presses his lips together, tilting his head. “I see.”

“...Do you?”

Leaning back in his chair, Eggsy watches him. “Mmm. Very well, I can’t force you to do anything you don’t want to do. That wouldn’t be...nice or gentlemanly of me, would it?”

“...No, it wouldn’t be.” Harry observes him, clearly trying to figure him out.

There’s really nothing to figure out. Eggsy needs to regroup, that’s all. Besides--He pulls out his mobile to check for the time. “It’s half past eight already. Didn’t you say you had work, Mr. Hart?”

He shouldn’t relish the way Harry’s lips thin. Eggsy’s always had the odd feeling that Harry doesn’t like it when he calls him that. But even weirder is that Harry doesn’t correct him.

“I do have work, yes.”

“So do I.” Eggsy reaches across the desk, slowly tipping the notebook closed. “If you’ll excuse me, Mr. Hart, I’ll leave you it.” He stands from his seat, starting to walk away.

“ _Don’t--_ ”

Eggsy turns back to find Harry pressing the back of his hand to his mouth, not quite a fist, but halfway there. Eggsy raises an eyebrow, prompting.

When Harry finally speaks, he’s toneless. “Your work isn’t until five in the afternoon.” He closes Eggsy’s pen and sets it on top of the notebook before he slides the whole thing forward. “I’d like you to practice.”

“...It’s kinda cute that you think you know my schedule or think that I have that much time.” Despite the words, Eggsy takes a few steps forward anyway, reaching for the pen and the notebook. “But whatever. Goodbye, Mr. Hart.”

Making his way to the door, Eggsy absently puts the pen in the wrong backpocket and immediately pulls it back out--The last thing he needs is ink on the neatly folded tie stowed away there. He checks the time on his mobile again, wondering if Cavendish would mind if he came early for their session.

“I know you’re being petulant.”

Stopping in place, Eggsy slowly cranes his head back towards Harry. “ _‘Petulant’_?” Eggsy does his best not to bare his teeth. Harry might as well have called him _‘childish’_. “Oh no, I’m just being _polite_ , Mr. Hart. Work is very important to you, I know--”

“Don’t you get enough...physical affections from peers of your own age?” Harry questions, stilted, “There’s no need to seek such a thing from me.”

There’s so many things Eggsy can say to that. Things like ‘ _They’re not you_ ’, things like ‘ _I don’t want anybody else touching me_ ’.

Which is why he ends up saying nothing at all. The amount of rejection he’s had today is fucking amazing. He huffs softly at the irony of it all, shaking his head as he walks out the office.

Downstairs, instead of going straight for of the front door, he finds himself passing by the dark foyer, leaning against the entryway to the living area. He doesn’t really know why. Guess he just wants to look at the place. Wants to take it in and memorise it.

Unfortunately, he hears Harry’s footsteps coming down the stairs and he belatedly remembers Mr. Pickle--but it’s too late now. He’d have to go to back until he gets to the end of the hallway to get to the loo and Harry will see him. Eggsy will probably look more needy than he already seems to be. A shame, that; He misses Mr. Pickle.

“S’hot in here,” Eggsy announces, feeling the need to speak first. It isn’t really a lie. It shouldn’t be this hot in the morning. The light coming through the window is bright despite the curtains. “You know, they have them curtains now where they completely block the light and heat from outside--keeps the house cool without using up the bills. Energy saving or something like that,” He tells him, senseless, fucked up from feeling Harry behind him.

‘Cos Harry has that effect on him more than he’d like to admit, makes him hazy and stupid.

Eggsy shakes it off. “Goodbye, Mr. Hart.”

He takes a step back, and he’d brush against Harry for sure if Harry didn’t take a step back too, evading him smoothly. Eggsy didn’t have to see, he felt it, another rejection.

Jaw clenching, he walks through the dim foyer. Setting the notebook on the floor, he starts putting on his shoes. That’s when he gets inspired in a fit of indignance. Harry hovering a few feet away is getting really, _really_ irritating. It’s like he’s making sure Eggsy leaves or something, which is fucking needless and just plain _insulting_.

Eggsy reaches for the door-handle before he stops for dramatic effect and turns, putting on an oblivious innocent front. “Hey--About yesterday, you saw it right?”

Harry’s brows furrow. “Saw what?”

“...Y’know,” Eggsy urges, purposely apprehensive in his anticipation.

Harry only keeps staring, either confused or just plain fucking repressed.

Eggsy aims to barrel past it, maintaining a clearly faked confidence, bordering on _painfully awkward_. “So how was it?”

“...How was what?”

“Come on, just give it to me straight--What's my cock like?"

Harry blinks. "Pardon?"

"I just need to know 'cos—y'know how it is, ego reasons—boys talk about cocks a lot and I'd just like to know how I...measure up. M'not really an expert on cocks, me, but you saw mine, so...?"

Harry closes his eyes, rubbing at his temple. "I don't—I didn't see—It was covered...by your sweatpants, be rest assured I saw nothing."

Eggsy genuinely doesn't know whether or not that's bullshit. He purses his lips, waiting until Harry opens his eyes to frown in disappointment. Pretending to be suddenly overcome by a brilliant idea, he inhales sharply, biting his lip. “Well, what’s _yours_ like?”

“What.”

“Well, you saw mine,” Eggsy frowns again, looking rightfully embarrassed and indignant at once, “That’s not fair. We should even it out. Lemme see yours--”

“Eggsy,” Harry begins to admonish through gritted teeth, “This is inappro--”

“Let’s compare. I wanna see.”

“No--”

“If it makes you feel better, I’ll take mine out too--” His hands go to the button of jeans. There’s a _hiss_ before Harry’s hands are suddenly on top of his.

“ _Don’t_ ,” Harry orders, hands clenching.

Eggsy maintains his innocence, frowning up at him. “But I just have to know--”

“Your cock is fine. It’s normal,” Harry utters in a rush.

“How ‘fine’?”

“It’s--” Harry stutters, and Eggsy almost feels bad, worrying about the vein that’s clearly pulsing on Harry’s temple. “It’s average. There’s nothing to worry about--”

“ _‘Average’_ ,” Eggsy repeats flatly, trying not to bare his teeth. “Maybe you need a better look, Mr. Hart--” He moves his hands, pretending to try unbuttoning his jeans and Harry’s grip _strengthens_ \--more than that, he pushes and _pushes_ as if that will stop Eggsy, but all that does is press him back against the door. Eggsy’s sharp intake of breath is genuine this time.

God, he hopes he _bruises_.

A few long seconds pass and Harry slightly eases on his hold, like it’s _safe_ , and he’s opening his mouth like he’s gonna _apologise--_ Eggsy wants to fucking laugh as he abruptly slips his hands away from under his, immediately going for the top of Harry’s trousers.

”Mkay, just yours then,” He manages to murmur before Harry hisses again, hands grabbing Eggsy’s, swiftly pulling them away and pinning them _hard_ by the wrist against the door.

Eggsy gasps, hips helplessly twitching forward because they’re so fucking close--but he still can’t reach him, still a few centimetres shy and he wants to cry.

Harry’s eyes are closed and his grip impossibly _tightens_ as he bears down on Eggsy--Eggsy doesn’t know if it’s a good thing or not that Harry can’t see the way he’s leaning up, short of breath and hazy, near desperation. But Harry’s nose is against Eggsy’s hair, mouth halfway between Eggsy’s cheek and Eggsy’s ear and fucking _hell_ , the air that he _breathes_ , Eggsy can _feel_ it.

“ ** _Behave_** ,” Harry commands lowly through gritted teeth.

Eggsy shudders, tamping down a whine. He scoffs instead, but it comes out gruff and out of breath. “I don’t know.” His feigned innocence is starting to break, he’s sure of it. “Maybe if you give me a hug, though, I’ll think about it--”

“For fuck’s sake,” Harry utters, abruptly burying his face against Eggsy’s neck, hold on his wrists gone, one hand low on the back of Eggsy’s head, gripping at the short hair.

Eggsy’s breath hitches in surprise before he sighs, satisfied, putting his arms around Harry’s shoulders--But before he can even press closer, there’s a hand on his hip, a firm grip, pushing his lower half back against the door.

And that--That’s when Eggsy suspects he’s not the only one with a fucking hard-on.

It’s almost pathetic how Eggsy breathes out in relief, hand running through Harry’s hair.

He doesn’t know how long they stay that way, holding each other in the silence, breathing and slightly shaking. Or that last part could be just Eggsy.

“There,” Eggsy whispers softly, ridiculously content and fulfilled as he pets at Harry’s hair, running a soothing hand on his upper back. “That wasn’t so hard, was it?”

He feels Harry breath in deep against him. “This will be the last time,” He murmurs against Eggsy’s neck and _fuck_ , the goosebumps are fucking _savage_ \--Harry’s mouth moving against his skin just makes him fucking _fade_. “This--”

“Whatever you say, Harry,” Eggsy sighs, tilting his head slightly, breathing in against Harry’s hair. “Whatever you say.”

 

 

 

 

**II**

 

 

 

Harry sits through the briefing for the North Korean mission, absently taking in information. When it finishes, Merlin pulls him to the side, frowning.

“Are you alright?”

Harry blankly stares at him. “Yes.”

Merlin watches him for a few seconds more before nodding. “Is there anything you’d like to bring up?”

“Specify.”

“...Comments, questions, concerns?”

Harry finds himself opening his mouth. “Pertaining to the mission at hand, there’s about twenty minutes before the jet is ready. Might I make a quick stop by the psych department?”

Merlin tilts his head. “Suppose you could, if it’s important.”

“This mission’s feeds will be forwarded to my psychiatrist for further review,” Harry manages to raise a sardonic eyebrow, “It’s a _bit_ important.”

Rolling his eyes, Merlin huffs. “Stop by the changing rooms--your tie isn’t per protocol, you have to be in Osaka branch for a _formal_ meeting first--Didn’t you get the memo this morning? There was a _‘received and read’_ notification.”

Harry’s hand automatically feels for his tie. “Ah, yes. I did. Seem to have misplaced it, however, that particular tie. Didn't have time to look for it.”

Merlin raises his eyebrows. “...You lost a Class-A Kingsman necktie capable of withstanding up to one hundred kilogrammes of weight and force, among many other things that enable you to kill a man several different ways...?”

“ _‘Misplaced’_ , Merlin, not lost,” Harry calmly corrects him, “Misplaced.”

_Like my sanity._

 

 

»

 

 

“Galahad,” Morgause greets upon his entrance, “Is there anything you need?”

“Merely a courtesy question needing an answer.”

She raises an eyebrow. “Alright.”

“If I engage in sexual activities during the span of this mission, would you prefer the feeds be off, perhaps have it redacted?”

Her expression is mild but her eyes are sharp. “I was under the impression that this operation would be a simple intel transfer detail, I didn’t get the ‘honeypot’ vibe--unless I’m mistaken.”

“It’s an assignment,” Harry tells her simply, “Anything goes, Morgause.”

“I see.” She nods. “If it’s largely for personal purposes, it’s up to you whether or not you’re willing to offer that insight, whether or not you want me to take that into account when I’m attempting to get to the issues that plague you.”

“Will that be in the official report?”

“Well, that would be up to me, isn’t it?”

Harry nods, conceding. “And if it’s largely for professional purposes?”

There’s an amused lilt to her mouth, but it’s gone in a flash, replaced by an expression of professional condescension. “Galahad, you stabbed an heiress instead because you didn’t want to sleep with her and you got the job done _regardless_. If there’s a will, there’s a way.”

Unamused, Harry purses his lips. “Thank you for your time.”

It was absurd to ask her to begin with, honeypot missions are almost always done with the surveillance on, it was never much of a concern. Harry was simply being courteous--

“Galahad,” Morgause calls out.

He stops by the door, turning and waiting.

“The question you have to ask yourself is: _‘Do I want to get better?’_ ”

 

 

\--

 

 

“Hell no,” Eggsy mutters, peeking out the window of Cavendish’s studio.

In the background, Cavendish hums in question, distracted. “Hmm?”

Eggsy makes his way to him by the desk. “Are we doing this shoot outside or…?”

Cavendish frowns at his schedule, the one Eggsy quietly peeked at earlier when Cavendish wasn’t looking. “Why? I’d like to hear your thoughts. This is your shoot after all.”

“Well, it’s kinda hot outside,” Eggsy tells him, honest, sitting down at the corner of the desk and eyeing the tray of snacks set up for him, “The studio’s kinda nice and cool--But y’know, you’re the professional and all that, I can take whatever you’ll give me, guv, no problem.”

Cavendish raises an eyebrow. “We’ll see about that.”

Eggsy rolls his eyes, taking the bag of crisps and opening it. “This’ll be a digital shoot, won’t it? Not the traditional film kind?”

“Depends. I tend to have both on site just in case.” Cavendish tilts his head curiously at him. “Why?”

“Just curious.” Eggsy shrugs, crunching away on the crisps, legs restlessly swinging as they hang off the table. “Read a little about photography this weekend.”

“Oh?” Cavendish stops to look at him. “Is that so?”

“Yeah.” Eggsy double-takes and frowns down at his greasy fingers, regretting his decisions in life. “Still confused, though.”

“About what in particular?”

“Lots of stuff.” Eggsy resorts to licking the grease off his fingers, mildly annoyed. “Just need to really learn some terms. I’m not good at memorising, it’s better if I actually know it.”

“Quite right, Gary, quite right--That’s the proper way to do it.” Cavendish actually sounds pretty impressed. “You seem as if you’d make a rather good student. I wouldn’t mind teaching you a few things.”

Eggsy manages to keep his expression unchanged. First of all, nobody ain’t got time for that. It being summertime, Eggsy’s doing a lot more lessons than he should be in general. But then again, any skill is a good skill to learn. It might come useful someday. Second, what the hell, why not?

“But you’re an important person and stuff. You won’t have time to teach _me_ of all people,” Eggsy huffs, absently rubbing at his shoulder.

“Nonsense, surely I can find a few minutes every now and then,” Cavendish waves him off, sniffing dramatically, “Perhaps it’s time to pass on the knowledge to the next generation.”

Eggsy scoffs. “You look like you’re thirty-something, Cav, relax-- _Anyway_ , do I just wear what I’m wearing or…? ‘Cos I didn’t bring a change of clothes or nothing.”

“Hmm.” Cavendish eyes him up and down from his seat. “We’ll bring a few. Just in case.”

 

 

\--

 

 

The average time it would take on a commercial civilian plane to get to Osaka from London is approximately thirteen hours. On a Kingsman jet, however, it takes less than six with no stops. It depends on how risky and urgent the mission itself is.

Harry is only nearing the end of his first hour when the words on the files start to look foreign. He stares and stares but he can’t quite make them mean something. It feels like surrender when he finally lays the files down on the table in front of him, leaning his head to the side against the wall of the plane, blankly gazing out the window.

He wishes he were braver. Particularly last night when he went home, barely holding himself together. He rushed upstairs to wash his face as if that could calm him down. The prospect of looking up a few inches higher to catch a glimpse of his own reflection was daunting. Harry wasn’t sure who he was going to see.

He had it all planned. He was going to use the amnesia dart on himself.

He was prepared--He had already written instructions for himself and left it somewhere he can see the moment he’d wake. 

He was there, he was pointing his watch to his own neck.

And yet.

Harry presses his head harder against the wall, hoping it’ll ease the oncoming migraine.

In all honesty, he had thought of going back to HQ, demanding Arthur for the long-term mission at once.

Better yet, Harry could have gone out, picked someone up for the night. He thought about it--God, did he think about it. He was willing to power through the nausea and the cold sweat to do just that. But instead he switched the setting on his watch the last second and deployed a stun dart on himself before he could even make his way out of his room. He was unconscious for hours, but even then he knew that was the only way he was going to get any sleep. Waking up feeling like absolute shit was worth it.

Because he didn’t think about it. He didn’t even remember.

It was a normal day and he went about his routine, albeit sluggishly.

He was fine. He was dealing with it.

Until Eggsy had arrived.

Bit by bit, Harry’s defences were being broken down and he was forced to remember.

Foregoing the amnesia dart is a decision he regrets. With trepidation, he reckons it’s something he’ll regret for as long as he lives.

The window of time to be able to forget that particular incident is already closed, even if he wasn’t jeopardising the things he’s learned in the past three hours for the mission. In the back of his mind, he remembers the long-term amnesia dart that R&D is currently developing.

A part of him considers sneaking into the department after this assignment.

But perhaps it’s not as terrible as it seems to be. Harry and Eggsy had cleared up the misunderstandings. Eggsy’s not in trouble with Yvonne Jansen for saying Harry’s name by accident. Eggsy didn’t seem to be too upset with him about being walked in on. He only worried about his mother.

Harry has to make it up to Michelle some other time.

He has to start by weaning himself off Eggsy.

It isn’t as if he wasn’t trying before, but he must double up on his efforts.

Harry must begin to distance himself from him. And vice versa.

A teenage boy shouldn’t be so attached to an older man, father figure or not.

Harry shouldn’t touch him again, that much is clear. He has to exercise more restraint than he already has. Looking back on it, his attempts were pathetic. He needs to do better. He will be taking on missions, he will get back in the swing of things with Kingsman.

After all, Kingsman is supposed to be his life.

Breathing through his nose, Harry tries to get Eggsy’s scent out of his system. He tries not to remember, he forces himself not to. It doesn’t quite make sense why he still does. Harry had his nose buried against Eggsy’s neck a mere three hours ago.

A moment of terrible, shameful weakness.

Harry shouldn’t remember the feel of him, Eggsy’s hand running through his hair, gentle, Eggsy’s hand on his back, soothing, Eggsy’s chest rising and falling as he breathes against him, the sound of it, the warmth of his body--

Harry eases his head back slightly from the wall, a few centimetres--before he abruptly bangs his head back against it.

The mild surprise only comes after. That wasn’t a conscious decision.

“Umm...Sir Galahad?” The co-pilot begins. How did Harry not notice that he exited the cockpit?

Either way, Harry doesn’t even open his eyes. “Migraine, Landon.”

“We do have medication, you know. Would you like--”

“No medication,” Harry tells him, firm. He waits until he hears the man go back into the cockpit before he opens his eyes.

Staring down at the files on the desk, the words are once more clear to him.

It doesn’t really matter if he takes the long-term assignment, Harry decides. Eggsy can take care of himself.

Of course he can.

Can’t he?

 

 

\--

 

 

“Would you mind taking that off for me, Gary?”

Eggsy huffs, eagerly taking his jacket off. It’s hot as fuck. “Thought you’d never ask--Honestly, this heat, bloody ridiculous.” He pinches a bit of his shirt and tries to fan himself by pulling on it back and forth. “I don’t think I’m gonna be much use sweating my bollocks off. Them photos probably look hideous.”

“Nonsense,” Cavendish murmurs, adjusting the lens and taking another picture.

“You gonna photoshop me though, right?” Eggsy asks, genuinely curious.

“Why in the world would I do that? You’re a natural. Perhaps the colours and the brightness and other technical matters. But not your form, no.”

Eggsy snorts, sceptical. “Okay, sure, guv.”

They’ve been here for about half an hour and Eggsy already wants it over with. Not that it isn’t interesting and all that. But maybe he just wants to dedicate his time to plan things with Harry. Is it too needy of him to come over tomorrow? Hell, will Harry even be home tomorrow?

Does it matter?

Eggsy’s more determined than ever.

Nevermind the guilt when it comes to his mum. ‘Cos yeah, it’d probably make more sense to everyone else if Harry and his mum got together.

But nobody knows _them_. Nobody knows the way Eggsy and Harry are with each other. And yeah, Harry _is_ older than he is. But does it really matter if they...care about each other the way they do? They’re not like anyone else, are they? The stuff they do, the...ease, the comfort, their dynamic--It’s fucking golden. Harry should see that. Eggsy will make him see.

Does it really matter what other people think?

Obviously, they can’t tell his mum. Not for a few years at least, but--

“Gary, would you like a break? I don’t want you fainting from heat stroke on me now,” Cavendish fails in trying to hide that amused smile and Eggsy just rolls his eyes.

More or less, they’re in a public place, but slightly secluded because it’s in an alley. Which might be skeevy considering what Cavendish has been accused of by Mycroft Holmes, but at this point--to hell with them both. It’s not like there aren’t people passing by. To be honest, he’d rather they didn’t despite the safety issue. It’s embarrassing to be seen with this much attention.

It’s just weird. People might think he’s a celebrity of something.

But then again, it’s London. People don’t give a shit.

“What d’you have in mind, guv?”

“Whatever you’d like.” Cavendish tilts his head as he walks closer, a handkerchief in hand. “There’s a fantastic coffee shop around the corner--Here, you have a bit of sweat running down--let me take care of that for you.”

Eggsy doesn’t really have it in him to protest fast enough and then Cavendish is lightly patting his handkerchief on Eggsy’s temple, down to his cheek and even his neck and--Eggsy huffs in embarrassment, hiding his discomfort as he raises his eyebrows. “People are looking, you’re killing me here, I ain’t a kid.”

Cavendish chuckles softly, handing him the handkerchief. “Of course not, Gary.”

Eggsy forgets to tell him that he doesn’t like coffee or that he doesn’t even like tolerating the smell of it. He decides to keep it that way. The less Cavendish knows about him, the better. Eggsy can suffer for a bit. It’s fine. He’s technically on the job.

Except he’s not really being paid, but whatever.

Maybe he’s getting paid in knowledge and experience.

Eggsy can’t help but snort at that.

“Alright, c’mon, let’s go.” Eggsy urges, drying up his sweat with the handkerchief. At the realisation that it smells like Cavendish’s cologne, he scrunches his nose. “You’re buying me food.”

“Ah, you’re getting shameless,” Cavendish tuts before smiling. “Good.”

 

 

\--

 

 

“Disgusting,” Harry utters.

Merlin gives him an unamused look through the video comms. “We’ve talked about this. It’s as much of a diplomacy matter as well as a simple assignment.”

“You mean a strategic maneuver akin to businessmen sales tactics--”

“Galahad, you’re acting as if this is a very difficult chore. You’ve proven yourself more than capable in charming people, mingling with other branch employees shouldn’t be an issue. Arthur’s orders.”

They hold each other’s gaze and Harry wonders if Merlin even knows what the long-term mission is truly about, whether or not he even is aware to what extent Harry is bound to be involved in. Because Harry is certain that’s what Arthur is testing him for.

“Then so it shall be,” Harry answers dutifully, but not without an eyeroll. “I have three hours until I arrive, I’d like some personnel files to go over. I’m dreadfully bored. I might as well.”

Merlin appears fractionally mollified by that. But his eyes narrow. “No bodies.”

“What.”

“North Korean mission--we’ve discussed this. No bodies.”

“...No bodies,” Harry repeats, appeasing.

“Good. Now do your job _and_ make friends.”

Harry bares his teeth in a smile.

 

 

\--

 

 

The coffee shop is packed because one, it’s London, two, it’s summer and this place has air conditioning, three, fucking _tourists_ \--but they manage to get a table in the corner and thank fucking god it’s cold in here.

“How are them photos?” Eggsy asks as Cavendish goes through them on his large camera.

“Fantastic, Gary.”

Eggsy narrows his eyes, gnawing at the straw for his smoothie. “Bullshit. What’s the verdict?”

“Verdict?” Cavendish tilts his head in curiosity.

“The modeling stuff, am I...okay? Passable, at least?”

It’s not that Eggsy _wants_ to be a model. It’s just--Suppose it’s good to know that people like the way you look enough to see you again and again.

Cavendish watches him for a moment before he gets up from his seat and moves to the one right next to Eggsy. Eggsy can’t really react much as Cavendish hands over the camera, showing him how to navigate through the buttons, and honestly Eggsy is fucking nervous ‘cos it’s fucking expensive, he knows it. If he drops this shit, he’s gonna have to model for him for like ten years to pay it off.

“Look through it,” Cavendish tells him. And see, if he was a paedo who took photos of underage children in a creepy way, he wouldn’t just hand his camera over just like that now would he?

Eggsy frowns as he looks at himself. Each and every photo makes him want to cringe, but he can’t deny that the shots are nice--”Not that I know much about photography, but this is good stuff. The angles and the like,” Eggsy says stupidly, regretting opening his mouth.

“What do you see?” Cavendish prompts.

Eggsy squints, trying not to be embarrassed. “Just myself, looking like an idiot, leaning on a brick wall, maybe a bit dramatic. Someone who doesn’t know what the hell he’s doing. Definitely sweaty--”

“I see a young man with potential,” Cavendish professes. Eggsy finds himself blinking, mind going blank for a split second.

“Huh?”

“Modeling can be about many things, and it might not seem like it, especially in this day and age, but there is the need for authenticity--A genuine truth of character.”

“...Uhuh..” Eggsy urges him along, not really understanding.

“It’s also about following orders. The model, while likely experienced in their work and is able to bring something to the table, they still have to follow the demands of the job. In most cases, it’s the photographer or the brand or the ethos of the work they’re trying to capture.”

“And…?”

“You do it rather well.”

Eggsy squints at him. “But you literally just told me to stand around and ‘be myself’ which, to be honest, is completely bullshit, so I just ended up messing about. You just happened to take photos in the background.”

“Exactly. You’re a natural.”

Despite it all, Eggsy begins to feel really good about that and it’s really annoying. Not to mention embarrassing. Like, jesus, how weak is his ego?

Eggsy looks down at the screen, trying to see what Cavendish sees.

He doesn’t.

Eggsy frowns. “Sure.”

Cavendish huffs, shaking his head as he leans in closer to look at the screen too. “I see someone who can do as he’s asked--Someone who wants to do something with his life, I can tell.”

The words are a bit startling, but Eggsy doesn't really know why. Maybe because it’s a bit too dramatic.

Either way, he can’t help but prompt him some more, genuinely curious. “And…?”

“Whether or not that _something_ is modeling, you’re still young, you’ll figure it out. Everybody starts somewhere.”

Eggsy bites at his lip, considering. “What are you gonna do with them photos?”

“I’ll put them in a portfolio. You can keep them.” Cavendish shrugs. “Or I can make copies and send them to a few people in the industry to help you get started. It’s your choice, Gary.”

Scratching his head, Eggsy’s overwhelmed as he thinks about it. “No offence, but I don’t think a photo of me being dramatic in an alley in my shite clothes is gonna get me somewhere.”

Cavendish laughs. “That’s why I brought you three different sets of clothes. Variety is the spice of life, it’s good to have a mix in your portfolio. I’ll wait for you to finish your smoothie, then we’ll go back to the car, yes?”

“Yeah,” Eggsy answers back, genuinely smiling. “Oh, and I actually have a tie here somewhere, nicked it from my mum’s boyfriend.”

“Won’t you get in trouble for that?”

“Nah, the bastard has lots of them, he prolly won’t even notice--Hey, where’s Lucas?”

There’s an offended eyebrow raise. “He’s ‘Lucas’ while I’m ‘Cav’? Tsk, tsk, Gary.”

Eggsy doesn’t even hold back the eyeroll. “I didn’t even know you could drive until today, to be honest.”

Cavendish scoffs. “I can drive, I just let him do it. It’s taxing. For now however, he’s in Lismore doing an errand for my wife.”

“...Huh.” Eggsy doesn’t know what to do with that. “Lismore?”

“Lismore Castle in Ireland,” Cavendish announces, sounding almost bored, “My family owns it.”

Eyes going wide, Eggsy gasps. “You’re taking the piss--A castle? A real, actual castle?”

“I’m afraid so,” Cavendish tells him, and Eggsy can appreciate how he’s trying to hide the amusement. “Would you like to see it?”

Eggsy looks down at the camera. It’s probably somewhere in here, but it seems such a task to find it with all the photos stored inside. “Nah, I can google a photo or two.”

At the resulting silence, he looks up at Cavendish who's staring at him oddly. “I’m sure that doesn’t quite compare to seeing it in real life.”

It takes a while for Eggsy to fully understand what that means. “Shit, are you for reals? But that’s--I’ve never been to Ireland--” He stops in his excited ranting, remembering his pride. Jesus christ. Why is he so needy? Fucking embarrassing, that’s what it is. “Nah, it’s--My mum probably wouldn’t let me. Plus, I don’t even know how much a ferry to Ireland costs--”

“Gary,” Cavendish begins, slow, “Do you truly think I would invite you to my home and not take care of the expenses?”

“I ain’t no charity case as much as it seems like it,” Eggsy protests, mildly annoyed. He sucks at the straw to his smoothie in indignation.

Cavendish sighs. “Well, I suppose Ireland _is_ too far. You’re mother wouldn’t let you, I gather.”

“No,” Eggsy admits, pursing his lips. How could he even explain that?

_‘Hey mum, I’ve been undercover ‘cos some wanker in a suit told me this bloke was dangerous but he’s actually kinda nice and he invited me to his castle!’_

Eggsy squints. That sounds pretty gay. Either way, Eggsy can’t go--unless...he lies.

Wait, why the fuck does he even want to go?

… _’Cos it’s a castle, you dimwit,_ A part of him says, and he has to admit it.

“You got any local castles in the country?” Eggsy jokes.

“Well, it’s not quite a castle. But I think you’d find it lovely. If you haven’t finished your paper on Westminster Palace, perhaps you can change the topic. I know more about Chatsworth House, I grew up in it.”

Eggsy forgot about that dumb prop cover about writing a paper. Damn. Is he actually gonna have to write a paper and show it to him for authenticity purposes?

“How far is that?” Eggsy asks instead, choosing not to dwell on it.

“Three to four hours away, car or train.”

“Shit, that’s far.”

“East Midlands--and trust me, compared to flights all over the world, three to four hours is nothing.”

Eggsy watches him for a few seconds. “...You miss it.”

Cavendish huffs. “Nonsense--It’s simply that my wife favours Lismore. So when we do have any time to go anywhere together, it’ll be Lismore, not Chatsworth.”

“So? Go on your own,” Eggsy tells him, “And about your wife, when am I gonna meet her?”

Cavendish looks taken aback. “You want to meet my wife?”

“Yeah, is she fit?” Eggsy raises a cheeky eyebrow and Cavendish gently flicks him in the head with a finger. “Ow!”

“My wife isn’t fit--She’s _ethereal_.”

“Wow,” Eggsy crows. “Vocab word. I'mma write it down.”

Cavendish rolls his eyes and starts packing up his camera, but Eggsy actually ends up writing the word in the notebook Harry gave him this morning. On both pages, ‘cos that was the dumb assignment.

When he finishes, he realises Cavendish watching him. “You actually wrote it down.”

Eggsy shrugs, not knowing what to say to that. His time is packed, he has to multi-task with all his assignments and his jobs. Pretty soon, he’ll have to go back to the dance studio to catch up on the choreography in time for the contest too.

Tilting his head, Cavendish wonders out loud, “Is that where you write your love letters to your girlfriend?”

Eggsy squawks in disbelief and offence, “ _Oi_ \--this ain’t the Victorian era.”

Imagine that, Eggsy Unwin writing love letters to Harry Hart.

Ridiculous.

Scoffing at the idea, he gives in to covering his face. Why the fuck is he all dumb and embarrassed about it?

Cavendish hums, teasing. “I’m pretty sure I saw you asking for hugs on that one page.”

“Oh my god,” Eggsy mutters, shutting the notebook and firmly putting a hand on it. “Let’s move on.”

“Thought you’d never ask--Come along, now. We have more photos to take. After that--” Cavendish raises an eyebrow. “Perhaps I’ll teach you other things.”

As annoying as this bloke gets sometimes, all accusations aside, Eggsy might just have to begrudgingly admit that he really ain’t that bad.

 

 

\--

 

 

It’s almost one in the morning when he arrives--Which means it’s almost five in the afternoon back at home and Eggsy should be starting work soon.

Harry is eager to get this over and done with. He’s a bloody agent, not a politician. He hates having to be paraded around Osaka branch as if he’s some kind of dignitary who has to be shown the works of the place, nodding at employees as if he’s a manager that overlooks everybody else. That’s not his fucking job.

“With all due respect, I have been here before,” Harry informs them politely. “I was here a month or so ago for an assignment.”

“Ah, yes, of course--Do forgive us, it was simply an order from Arthur that we make you feel welcome. You will be spending a considerable amount of time here, after all.”

Harry blinks. As far as he knows this mission is meant to last an estimated time of twenty-four to forty-eight hours. Which means--

“I see. Thank you very much for your consideration.”

“You’re welcome, Agent Galahad. Osaka branch looks forward to working with you.”

Harry manages a polite smile. It becomes more genuine at the thought of strangling Arthur. “Likewise.”

Even if Harry is considering the long-term mission more seriously at the moment, he'd rather not have to deal with it. There's a reason why he's asked Arthur to postpone briefings until a certain date.

“Your transport for South Korea has been prepared. Our liaison will make contact with you at the established location.”

An hour later, Harry arrives in Seoul. His task is to simply stay in the background and keep his eyes sharp. If there’s a problem, he will offer his assistance.

Boring.

But then again, it’s quite fascinating how people stay up to be in clubs at two in the morning. It’s as if they don’t have anything better to do in their lives.

Harry can’t complain too much. It’s not the stereotypical kind of club with loud repulsive music. The space is rather classy and modern with its floor to ceiling windows overlooking the buildings of the city and the bright lights of night life.

In fact, the only thing Harry can criticise is the elegant, no doubt _feigned_ wholesomeness of it all. The music is mellow, interspersed with jazz instrumentals, slow of tempo, resulting in a twinge of melancholy for those subjected to it.

It’s fucking depressing.

Harry purses his lips behind his glass of water.

“Are you this terrible at your job?” A mild neutral voice asks, and suddenly there’s a woman slipping into the seat next to him at the bar.

“...Pardon?” Harry assesses her with a sweeping glance--to anyone else it might seem like an interested gaze of a lonely man in the ungodly hours of the night. Which--Harry resolutely ignores the irony of it all and focuses on the situation at hand. She’s a tall woman in her elegant plum dress, slender and graceful. Mid-to-late thirties, Japanese of descent, perhaps mixed with something else.

Her tone is calm, even if her words seem instigating. “One would think that they’d send someone...more fitting.”

Harry raises his eyebrows. “Care to elaborate?”

She sighs and orders a drink in Korean. Her fluency shouldn’t be a surprise--If anything, Harry envies it more than he'd like to admit. One of the things Harry wanted to improve on was languages. It’s also one of the things that was put on the back-burner since Eggsy wormed his way into his life without Harry having even realised it, bringing about a tangle of problems to deal with one after another.

“For all the prestige of your organisation,” She begins, “One would think that they’d be able to send someone to...match the scenery, as it were.”

Harry surveils the room in a single glance, trying to not be offended at the prospect that she might be talking about age. Other than the music, the only sounds coming from the room is the hushed conversations by middle-aged people in their respective areas.

Harry’s only forty-seven, for fuck’s sake, he--

 _Shit_.

_I’m forty-seven._

She huffs and slides over a drink. “An Englishman in Korea.”

Taking the glass in hand, Harry raises his eyebrows. “I wouldn’t be the first--nor would I be the only one.” That’s an odd thing to make an issue out of, Harry isn’t even the only white male in this room. “There’s at least half a dozen here.”

“Mmm, but if I were the enemy and the point was to ensure suppression of any threats, every white man here would be eliminated.”

Harry tries to hide a smile as he casually eyes his drink, but it doesn’t quite work. “Is that a threat? If I were the enemy, for the sake of absolute security, perhaps _everyone_ here should be eliminated.”

She chuckles before nodding. “Michiko Ueno,” She introduces herself, prompt and professional, “Liaison, among other things.”

“Dare I ask what those are?”

“No. If you’re as good as they say you are, you will figure it out as the night goes on.”

“‘They’?” Harry repeats, curious.

“The branch,” Ueno provides, “There are rumours about you.”

Suppressing an eyeroll is extremely difficult. “Being in this line of business, there shouldn’t be things such as rumours to begin with.”

“Mmm--So you don’t wish to know then?” She tilts her head at him.

Slightly narrowing his eyes, Harry smiles. “Better to not.”

Ueno nods, seemingly approving. “Admirable.”

 

 

\--

 

 

“Brilliant,” Cavendish crows.

“Stop bullshitting me, it’s getting old,” Eggsy lies, rolling his eyes and sniffing.

It’s after work already, and instead of going straight to Harry’s house he chose to go back to Cavendish’s studio. It’s not like Harry’s home anyway. Eggsy can say hi to Mr. Pickle another day.

He frowns, moving his gaze away from the screen down to the mouse as he uselessly drags it in random directions, clicking hard. “S’not doing as I say.”

From over Eggsy’s shoulder, Cavendish hushes him, patient as he slows Eggsy down by putting a hand over his. “That’s because you’ve clicked the zoom tool. Relax--You might’ve overdone the airbrushing just by a tad.”

“No, I haven’t,” Eggsy protests. “I’m just tryna cover the bruise on my face. Like, what impression does that make?”

“Leave it, it adds a bit of character,” Cavendish tells him, his other hand settling on Eggsy’s shoulder. “It’s a part of you.”

Eggsy scrunches his nose, a bit offended. Does that mean he’s always meant to be the arsehole that gets into fights and trouble? Is that his future?

“M’kay, guv. Whatever you say. You’re the professional, after all.”

Something vibrates, and Eggsy nearly hurts himself trying to get at his mobile.

Cavendish looks at him oddly. “Your girlfriend checking up on you, Gary?”

“Hah. I wish.” Eggsy tries not to be disappointed.

 

 

**18\. 08. 2007 - Jamal:**

_So i mightve been an arsehole and overreacted about the Janine thing. If I buy u a pint can we be cool?_

 

 

Eggsy smiles. It’s not Harry, but he’ll take the good news.

“Tsk, tsk. A pint?” Cavendish admonishes mockingly over his shoulder.

“Oh my god, rude as hell, Cav--” Eggsy shuts his mobile. “You were literally gonna buy me a drink the second day we met, chill.”

Cavendish sniffs. “It was a cultural offering. A pint worth three quid is hardly worthy of your system.”

“Yeah, well,” Eggsy scoffs, laughing, not letting on how offended he is, “S’all me and my mates can afford.”

“Will you have a responsible adult watching over you?”

At that, Eggsy squints, turning his head and looking up only to suddenly realise how close Cavendish is.

For a split second, his mind stops working. And see, Eggsy would be nervous, but Harry does that sometimes and the dolt has no intention of fucking him any time soon, does he?

Eggsy only raises an eyebrow. “You wanna come?”

Cavendish mirrors his expression. “It’s late, Gary, perhaps you should go drinking another time. It’s a very dangerous world, after all.”

See?

Rolling his eyes, Eggsy huffs, “I can take care of myself, you know.”

The corner of Cavendish’s mouth twists downwards. “Well, I wasn’t going to ask, but--” He tilts his head to the side, and it takes Eggsy quite a bit to realise he’s gesturing to something until the hand on top of his moves slightly, Cavendish’s thumb brushing down to the cuff of his jacket--which has somehow moved a little to reveal his wrist.

Shit.

“Err...” It’s all he can manage as his eyes are stuck on the colour. It’s not glaringly obvious, but if you look for more than two seconds you can tell that’s it’s a fresh bruise. And that it’s about to get worse.

“...Gary,” Cavendish begins, grave, and Eggsy finally moves, slipping his hand away underneath from his and pulling his sleeve further.

“S’nothing,” He insists, his deep seated excitement eclipsed by uneasy nerves--‘cos shit, Cavendish is probably getting the wrong idea. Eggsy tries to laugh it off, pointing finger-guns at him. “S’fine, really.”

Cavendish sighs and presses his lips together. “Alright, I won’t push you. But know that if you ever need anything or simply someone to talk to--” The hand on Eggsy’s shoulder clenches slightly, “I’m here.”

Eggsy can’t really find the words to say, so what he does end up with is really lame.

“...Okay.”

 

 

\--

 

 

The asset has been in place for the past thirty minutes. Waiting for the informant with the North Korean intel is as boring as Harry thought it would be, but he’s still keeping alert as he continues conversing with Ueno.

“Trust me, I understand where you’re coming from, however--”

“It’s two thousand and seven,” She says, leaning in closer to keep the volume low, “The inclusion of other races in your organisation, in _field_ context--not _only_ limited to support--would be beneficial.”

Harry has brought it up with Arthur before. Compared to one who would seamlessly blend in, a well-suited white man in a different country and culture has a different route to go through to achieve the objective.

Harry’s tempted to turn his glasses off for the sake of Ueno’s safety just in case Arthur will look over the feeds. That man can’t even accept a white English candidate who was simply in a different _social class_ , Harry can already see the excuses Arthur will make in response to Ueno’s ideas. He’s heard them before.

As it is, however--"Perhaps someday,” Harry neutrally responds.

She raises an eyebrow, the look in her eyes almost shrewd. “Perhaps someday indeed. The Americans have managed well enough.”

“That’s--" Harry chooses his words carefully, aware of surveillance. “Statesmen aren’t exactly Kingsmen anymore. Americans seem to have a secession issue.”

“Ah, yes," Ueno chuckles, “A rebellious bunch, aren’t they?”

“That’s one word for it.” Harry can't formally take sides in this issue. Arthur isn't very tolerant of Statesman in general. It must be one of the reasons why he isn't amenable to the prospect of letting branches have local agents in the first place. Arthur likes to keep his power.

“You must be really taken by your wife,” Ueno suddenly muses, and Harry blinks.

“What.”

She pointedly glances down at his glass. “You have been holding that for the past hour. Never took a single sip. Does she not like it when you drink?”

Harry watches his own hands clutch at the glass. “I’m on the job.”

“Come on now--” Ueno rests her chin on the back of her hand, watching him. “You field employees are well known to drink on the job especially if the setting calls for it, because you are trained for high tolerance.”

Gritting his teeth, Harry downs half of his glass in one go. “Satisfied?”

“Ah, no,” She laments. “Unnecessary--It was quite endearing. God knows I gave up asking my husband the same thing. He just can’t stop drinking.”

One of the people who enter the club does a precursory glance around the room and Harry looks back to Ueno. “Is he an alcoholic?”

“No. He buys drinks so people will like him, thus he drinks along with them. Also, he likes to attract the schoolgirls. That seems to be his favourite.”

Harry almost chokes on his next gulp, but Ueno goes on, “There’s something attractive to young malleable minds about a man who’s not only rich, but isn’t afraid to show it. Particularly when it comes to them. I can hardly blame that psychology. People like to feel special, I suppose, on both sides.” Tapping her perfectly manicured fingers on the counter, she hums, wondering. “Is that primarily a male Westerner phenomenon?”

“Pardon?”

“There are plenty of Western men who go to other countries simply to let the younger prepubescent girls flock to them almost in worship--A leftover effect from imperialism, no doubt, but what is it in particular?” She wonders out loud in seemingly heavy concentration. “Is it the ego? Is it the...conquest for virginity?”

To anyone else in the room, he and Ueno might appear to be in a heavy private conversation, but he notices her gaze flick to the asset and the man now sitting across from him for a split second. Either way, Harry’s skin crawls at this topic and he wants to leave immediately.

“I wouldn’t know,” Harry murmurs in response, surprised to find his glass empty. Guilt swirls in his stomach.

“Hmm,” Ueno hums, “Would you like another? Or would you be ashamed to look her in the eye when you get home?”

Pursing his lips, Harry manages to stay calm. “Do I look like I’m wearing a ring?”

“Of course you aren’t. It would be foolish of any of us to do so in this line of work.”

“Nor would I be in this line of work if I was,” Harry lies smoothly. And it makes him stop. Could he ever give up Kingsman if Eggsy--

It doesn’t matter.

It will never be.

“Hmm,” Ueno hums again, a disbelieving sound, eyes glinting in a mischievous light.

The music transitions into [another](https://drive.google.com/file/d/0B6aF7_1BmgYpUFJUcUNZaDNVQlE/view?usp=sharing), and from the first few seconds in he knows it’ll be just as gloomy as the last one. Harry gives up, mildly agitated. “What is it with this establishment?”

“What about it?” She goes on to order another round of drinks and Harry absently palms his suit jacket for his mobile.

“It’s bloody depressing, that’s what. How does a business operate like this?”

Ueno raises an eyebrow. “The vocals haven’t even started.”

“Music is a universal language. One can tell how utterly dispiriting it is.”

“Perhaps you are projecting,” Ueno suggests, but there’s a smirk at the corner of her mouth as the vocals begin. “Do you understand the language?

“I might.” Harry’s not entirely fluent, but he does understand a bit of Korean. He’s simply needs practice with pronunciation and writing.

Ueno rubs her hands. “Let’s see if your suspicions are well-founded. I’ll try for a translation-- _‘Can’t stop myself--Can’t help it now..._ ”

In quiet distress, Harry begins to protest, because if his initial perception of the song brings him dejection, he’d rather not know it in its pure form. “There’s no need--”

“This’ll be interesting,” She insists, a soft laugh escaping her, “There won’t be an exact translation, each language has its own quirks and sentiments that cannot be formalised in English, but I’ll do my best--”

Sighing, Harry grabs a glass and keeps it close as he lets her work it out.

“ _‘I could just go like the wind...before our love’_ \--Or ‘ _before we love’_?” She squints in the distance. Harry pretends to humour her, nodding along as he discreetly observes the negotiation taking place.

“...' _I have to look for something. Lost dreams and truth. I, myself, am sick--in pain--I am unable to hold your hand’_...” She huffs. “And there’s the ‘ _I love you’_ s--easy translation.” She tilts her head, listening in concentration. “ _‘I...who confess the love to myself in my heart--Please pass by me--Please turn away. Because I cannot make you happy for now’_ \--Oh my,” She murmurs, eyebrows raised just as Harry goes still. “This _is_ depressing.”

But she continues, and Harry can’t do anything but listen.

“ _‘Don’t wait for me, you shouldn’t even look back--Don’t love the...bad me…?_ '” Ueno frowns. “Mmm, more like…' _the bad person that I am’_ sort of sentiment--” She takes a sip of her drink, and Harry wants to drown in his. He doesn’t need the translation. He can hear it in the singer’s voice, the honourable pleading and the gut twisting sorrow. “‘ _Don’t love me--I, who does not deserve your love. Just look at the good times and leave, before things end in sadness--There’s a different world out there, although under the same sky, although on the same earth, a world where you will not discover my aching heart’_.”

Underneath it all, Harry is enraged. He’s ashamed and he’s furious. How has this become his life? How has he been reduced to such a pathetic--

“The chorus repeats,” Ueno informs him listlessly.

“I can hear that,” Harry utters, devoid of emotion. It’s not healthy to wish that something goes wrong in this operation simply because he itches for violence. And yet.

After a few seconds of nothing, Ueno perks up. “Oh.”

“What now?”

“ _‘I love you--In the midst of lies, this is the truth. Next time, perhaps next time, in the least, I won’t leave our love behind. Even if my heart is weary and brings tears to my eyes, I will be happy--for being by your side is bliss’._ ”

There’s a beat of silence between them but she suddenly scoffs out a genuine laugh. “Depressing _and_ pathetic.”

Under the bar counter, Harry’s left hand clenches, eyes trained on the asset and the informant. Out of pure spite, he wills one of them to make a mistake. The song fades, immediately transitioning on to the next [one](https://drive.google.com/file/d/0B6aF7_1BmgYpT29Qc29xczlPcDg/view?usp=sharing).

“Galahad?”

“That’s very interesting,” Harry drones.

“I can’t lie, there’s a reason why such a genre plays here.”

“And what is that?”

“Look around,” Ueno tells him, “Do you see any youths?”

“No.”

“This place is filled with problematic middle-aged people who are looking to forget, people who can afford it. The more they feel the melancholy, the more they’ll buy the drinks.” She raises an eyebrow, a quirk at the corner of her mouth. “You must admit it’s a good business decision. There’s even a couple of rooms around here for that very purpose.”

Harry blinks, head slowly turning towards her.

 

 

\--

 

 

It’s only when Eggsy’s walking to the tube station that it really dawns on him.

That was dangerous.

He practically spent the day with a man who was accused of terrible, _terrible_ things. And yeah, he’s not gonna lie, he was sort of waiting for Cavendish to make any sort of move, but Eggsy didn’t really pick up on anything too suspicious.

Every time he did, he found a way to explain them into something harmless. Which, again, might be stupid and dangerous to some but--

Eggsy turned out fine, didn’t he?

Suddenly annoyed at Mycroft Holmes for wasting his time, he finally decides to get it over with.

Next time.

It’s been a long day of modelling and learning the basics of photoshop, okay? He’s really tired. After a quick shower for when he gets home, he plans to sleep. It doesn’t matter that it’ll barely be ten in the evening when he conks out. Ideally, he’d like to wake up early and go back to Harry’s place. So there.

One of these days, he’ll go to Baker Street and make that call. Just not today.

As he sits on the tube, he thinks about this whole situation he’s got himself in. A part of him is tempted to finish the job though, to go to Cavendish’s house and plant the last bug in there--Eggsy assumes it’s a bug, the kind in spy films, because really, what else could it be? Holmes might think he chickened out and that’s not on. Eggsy would like the bragging rights that _yeah_ , he _did_ finish the job, even though it was stupid to begin with. After all, Eggsy’s been keeping up with the news. There’s a body that’s been found and it’s been linked to the previous murders.

Eggsy did the maths--which is annoying, he hates maths, but he did it--and Cavendish was with Eggsy during those times. Hell, even Wiltshire.

So what the fuck is Mycroft Holmes doing messing about and wasting people’s time like this?

Rotten bastard.

Anyway, so yeah, Cavendish can seem dubious sometimes but he genuinely just seems like he wants to help. He’s...almost like Harry, but more annoying and less tolerable. Fucking christ, Eggsy spent _how_ many hours today with Cavendish? Just thinking about it is suffocating. Gross.

On to more important things--Eggsy frowns down at his mobile.

It’s not like Harry’s meant to text him or anything. He’s probably busy at work.

But should he text him anyway?

Harry probably already thinks he’s needy as he is, but--

Eggsy stares at his own hand, slowly gripping at the mobile.

 

 

\--

 

 

Once the intel has been secured, they exchange packages with the asset and retire to one of the rooms as they wait for extraction instructions.

After setting his glasses down to face away on the bedside table, Harry fucks Michiko Ueno against the wall.

Legs around his waist, she laughs against his cheek. “You know, most people would have the decency to take their clothes off. Or mine.”

“I’m not like most people.” Under her dress, Harry clenches his hands on her thighs in retaliation. One of her hands go to his head, fingers starting to go through his hair and--

Harry pins her wrist against the wall, doing his best not to remember whose wrists he had pinned against the wall earlier this morning in his own home. He does his best not to wish those wrists _bruise_ because that’s not right.

That’s not right.

“Don’t touch my hair.”

Before she laughs again, he fucks her harder until she can’t even breathe properly anymore, her other hand gripping at the back of his suit jacket.

 

 

\--

 

 

Tossing and turning in his bed, Eggsy finally shoves the duvet away, sitting up.

“What the fuck?” He mutters in the darkness, agitation so intense he’s slightly out of breath. He’s supposed to be tired as _fuck_ , why is he awake? Eyes adjusting, he turns to his Ikea shark. “The fuck, Galahad?”

Obviously, the bloody thing doesn’t answer back ‘cos it’s a fucking inanimate object.

Eggsy blindly grabs for one of his mobiles on his bedside table, going straight for speed dial.

It rings and rings and rings.

No answer.

“Fuck’s sake,” He heatedly whispers, impulsively throwing it across the small room. Which is stupid, ‘cos it ain’t a Nokia, it’s probably broken now.

It just makes him more annoyed. He catches Galahad’s imploring gaze.

“Fuck you,” Eggsy snaps, unthinking, “You’re just like your father.”

In the silence, the guilt worms its way through. _Harry_ gave him that mobile and it’s on the ugly floor of his room somewhere and _damn_ , a plush-toy shark’s eyes shouldn’t look that _sad_. Goddammit.

Eggsy leaves his bed and crawls for his mobile. He makes sure it’s okay before setting it back on the bedside table and laying down on his bed, reaching for Galahad. “Okay, alright, I’m sorry, let’s try again.”

Closing his eyes and trying for sleep, Eggsy doesn’t know how long it’s been but--"Jesus fucking christ,” He mutters against the shark.

He gives up and makes his way to the bathroom, opening the mirror cabinet for one of his mum’s sleeping pills.

When he returns to his bed, he’s faced with Galahad’s accusing _disappointed_ gaze. Eggsy stupidly feels the need to explain. “Just one--just one. I’m not a fucking drug addict.” He gives in to fiddling with his mobile one last time before he loses the courage. “We have stuff to do tomorrow, that’s all. I can’t give it my best if I’m only half awake, can I?”

Eggsy huffs, gripping him to sleep.

 

 

\--»

 

 

On the transport to Tianjin to follow the next exchange of information, Harry palms his mobile through his suit-jacket. His eyes are irritatingly dry anyway, so he might as well take his glasses off to rub at them.

 

 

**19\. 08. 2007 - Excalibur**

_When you coming home?_

 

 

Ignoring the senseless guilt, Harry purses his lips and puts his mobile away before putting his glasses back on. He begins to suspect he’s cursed when a slow mesmerising [song](https://drive.google.com/file/d/0B6aF7_1BmgYpV0U3S2ZHZW04VTA/view?usp=sharing) begins to play through the speakers of the cab.

But that would mean he’s a superstitious kind of man.

He revisits that notion when he’s in a breakfast café in Novosibirsk. Due to the carrier being late, Harry is stuck listening to one [song](https://drive.google.com/file/d/0B6aF7_1BmgYpc2FyN2RwZzAwcWs/view?usp=sharing) after another. Unlike the two previous languages, Russian is something Harry is near fluent in, so it’s really quite annoying, if not _humiliating_ , to have to listen to these songs that seem to match his current situation.

Thankfully, Harry notices a rather suspicious individual lingering outside. If it was a homeless man, it would be understandable. But this is a man wearing a suit and heavily tinted _sunglasses_ at seven-thirty in the morning.

It’s a cloudy day.

Harry can see him clearly through the glass windows.

When the exchange is all said and done and this particular asset leaves, the man outside begins to make his move.

So does Harry, keeping his head high as he slips the butter-knife into his pocket without looking.

And yes, Merlin did say no to bodies dropping. But really, how will Harry know if the body drops?

When Harry exits the café, he turns left, and the man is walking towards him, presumably to follow the asset who went the other direction.

“Excuse me.” Harry keeps his line of sight level as he lightly bumps against the man.

“S-Sorr--” The automatic phrase falters as the man realises he has a butter-knife inches deep between his ribs.

It’s quick and easy. Merely a second later, Harry has the knife wrapped in a handkerchief, stowed away in his pocket as he simply walks on.

See? No bodies dropping.

 

 

\--»

 

 

Eggsy wakes up at six-thirty feeling like absolute shit and he considers ransacking the bathroom cabinet for two more sleeping pills.

What he does instead is blearily pack his shit and change. With Galahad under his arm, he sneaks out of his bedroom and makes a quick stop to brush his teeth before going to the kitchen to take some snacks too.

He’s about to leave the front door when he stops and frowns down at Galahad.

Damn.

Back in his bedroom, Eggsy switches out his rucksack for the biggest one he owns. Which isn’t saying much, but he doubts there will ever be a bag big enough to hide a forty inch long plush shark. And so Eggsy carefully shoves him in there, trying not to feel more shit than he already does.

When he’s done, he puts his flatpeak cap on and pulls his hoodie up as he makes his way out.

Breaking into Harry’s place takes longer than it should, and he almost gives up, ready to whine and scratch at the door, but he succeeds, stumbling in.

He absently locks the door as a habit but he forgets to take his shoes off as he walks through the foyer and turns right into the hallway. A few feet more seems like forever, but then there to his right is the U-shaped stairs, and marching up on the steps leads him straight to his door on the right.

Practically delirious, he drops his bag to the floor and takes his clothes off. Because London is gross, especially the tube. Being on it just attracts so much dirt that Eggsy should probably take a shower, but he settles for a wet wipe on his face and hands before changing into a new pair of sweats and fishing Galahad out of his rucksack, apologetic.

“I did you a favour mate, c’mon, don’t be cross. It was either this or laundry.” Eggsy jumps on the bed, curling up with the shark and frowning as he tries to fluff him back up proper. “We’ll get you back to normal, promise.” Eyes heavy, he starts to doze off, petting him as he slurs the words, “Daddy’ll be home soon--I think. One of these days. Shhh...we’ll recruit him into fluffing duty.”

 

 

\--»

 

 

It’s seven a.m. in local time as Harry makes his way to Berlin branch. Even then, he’s not safe with the loud dramatic music about how ‘ _[Liebe ist alles](https://drive.google.com/file/d/0B6aF7_1BmgYpY25wNlE4Z0d2RzQ/view?usp=sharing)_ ’ as he passes by the shops.

Having no sleep combined with jumping through time-zones forward and in reverse for the past twenty four hours makes him give up and facepalm.

Even after an initial debrief, Harry finds himself dreadfully bored as he waits for the decryption of one of the acquired intelligence. Berlin branch, while full of exceptionally skilled tech engineers, is taking more time than expected.

He wonders if Amelia would like it here. Harry could recommend her for transfer and perhaps she won’t have to meddle with things as Quinlan’s proxy. Not that her help wasn't appreciated, it’s simply that it’s better not to involve people in such matters. The lesser number of people, the better.

“Agent Galahad, you are aware that you can leave now?”

Harry blinks.

“Pardon?”

The young man stares at him patiently. “Agent Bors will be stopping by very soon, he has clearance and authorisation to transfer the remaining intelligence to UK HQ once we have finished.”

“...What is your name?" Harry finds himself asking. He’s a [handsome](http://i.imgur.com/iyaGEvW.jpg?1) young man, with dark blue eyes that can easily be mistaken as something else under a different light, a well-defined facial structure and blonde hair--perhaps too blonde for Harry’s taste.

But it takes a split second longer than it should for him to look away from the specks of moles on his skin.

“...Jakob Kowalczyk," The young man answers, his gaze unyielding.

“Ah," Harry intones. “Polish?”

“Half. German, born and bred---Why? Am I in some sort of trouble, Agent Galahad?”

“No," Harry says, eyes roving down, noting the way the most prominent mole on his neck is on the wrong side. From a spectator’s point of view, Kowalczyk’s is off-centre to the right.

Eggsy’s is off-centre to the left. “Not quite.”

“Mmm. Would you care to specify?” Kowalczyk is still looking him straight in the eyes.

“Simple curiosity." Harry tilts his head. “How long have you worked here, Mr. Kowalczyk?”

“Two, not counting my candidacy year.”

“Which would make you...how old?”

“...Nineteen.”

Managing not to grimace, Harry nods. “Exceptional. They seem to be recruiting tremendously young nowadays--If you’ll excuse me...”

He stands, already thinking of what to waste his time on next.

“If there’s anything you need,” Kowalczyk begins, “Do say so. There are sleeping quarters within the building if you’d prefer to rest for a while before you leave.”

“I shall keep that in mind," Harry replies automatically.

“Goodbye. Safe travels.”

At least he’s polite enough not to bring up the fact that Harry’s lost almost an hour’s worth of time disassociating.

Either way, Harry might be leaving Berlin, but he isn’t going back to London.

He stops by Brussels.

A mistake.

The food he sees as he passes by only serves to remind him of someone in particular.

He rolls his eyes, grinding his teeth in agitation.

Passing the French border, he ends up wandering around a small commune for half an hour. He ends up buying something and gives up, heading to a larger city so he can find a direct transport to London.

Also a mistake.

As he browses the shops in wait for his train, a song plays through the speakers. He’s in France after all, in hindsight he should have known this would happen. French music is more... _[French](https://drive.google.com/file/d/0B6aF7_1BmgYpYWstZGFYbUg2SEk/view?usp=sharing)_.

Pursing his lips, he exits the store and waits in the station instead, staring straight at the wall from his seat.

Merlin isn’t there when he reports to HQ. Apparently, he’s in a conference in Zürich. Harry doesn’t know whether or not to be relieved. After sitting through the debrief and handing over the intel, he takes a shower.

It doesn’t make him feel any less dirty.

Glasses off by pure habit, he stops by Ikea instead of going home.

When he’s stuck staring into nothing, he notices an employee lingering in the background. “Yes?”

“Can I help you with anything, sir?”

Harry turns to look at him and finds a familiar face. “Ah, yes, Mike--Something about a...curtain.”

It’s fifteen minutes before noon when Harry does get home. He spends his time installing the bloody things in the living area. Nearly in complete darkness, Harry stands there for a few seconds, letting his eyes adjust.

He makes his way to the bathroom to pet at Mr. Pickle before eyeing the window.

“Hmm. Would it be excessive putting a blackout curtain here as well?”

In the silence, he turns to find Mr. Pickle’s eyes _accusing_.

Harry frowns and leaves, making his way up to his room. He should probably get some sleep. But he’s only manages to take off his suit jacket and his shoulder holsters in the wardrobe when he stops and goes straight for his office.

He sits in his chair and lays a hand on top of his laptop.

Again, he should get some sleep.

But he has to find a house.

 

 

\--

 

 

Eyes still closed, Eggsy sighs, squirming and stretching at the same time. He ends up clutching Galahad again, yawning.

When he blinks his eyes open, it takes a while to focus, much less realise that things are a bit different in this room. Particularly the bedside table he’s currently staring at. On it, there’s a familiar plush penguin and a small box that advertises a mug.

Brows furrowing, he slowly sits up, hugging Galahad to his chest. From this view, he sees a fridge [magnet](http://i.imgur.com/bUu3Zvl.jpg) of some sort, two dogs either side of a direction sign that says ‘ _Scotland’_.

Looking at the bookshelf, there's books on there that he hasn't really seen before. Some of them are vintage looking--the fancy kind--and some look brand new.

His mind goes blank. He begins to think that someone else might be using this room but--

_No._

_It’s mine,_ Eggsy asserts to himself.

Huffing against Galahad, he carries him along as he quietly exits his room. He stays leaning against the door for a while, breathing in and closing his eyes.

Eggsy frowns, opening his eyes and cautiously making his way to the office. He puts a hand up and lightly touches the door.

He probably shouldn’t be sneaking around, but it’s not really sneaking around if he thinks Harry’s in there, is it?

When he slowly opens the door, the surprise of being right catches him off-guard, but it’s nothing compared to the overwhelming amount of fondness and contentment at the sight of Harry.

Harry without his suit jacket on, asleep while sitting up with a hand on his laptop.

Unbelievable.

Fucking precious.

Carefully walking to the chair right in front of the desk, Eggsy sits, gently propping up Galahad halfway on the desk and on his lap, heavily leaning against him as he watches Harry.

The more he looks, the more sad he gets at how _tired_ he seems to be. Hell, just looking at him makes his eyelids heavier each time he blinks. Did Harry even eat? Eggsy’s getting a bit hungry. But it’s nothing compared to the exhaustion. Eggsy has to stifle a yawn, pressing his face against the Ikea shark in trying to stop it. He shifts slightly, peeking up at Harry.

God, he’s turning into one of those obsessed creepers, watching people sleep and shit.

But then again, when he finds himself waking up how many moments later, Harry’s doing the same thing.

Just staring.

Oddly enough, Eggsy feels comfortable with that. Comfortable with just staring back.

He doesn’t know how long it’s been when he finally asks Harry, soft and quiet, “How was your day?”

Harry blinks, brows slightly furrowing. His mouth opens, but the words come a few seconds later.

“...Hallucinations aren’t meant to speak.”

Dumbfounded and slightly pained, Eggsy raises his eyebrows. Deep down inside, he feels that familiar indignation he’s had for Harry’s job rising again. Why the _fuck_ does it always leave Harry exhausted and...messed up somehow?

Eggsy manages to keep his calm. “I’m real.”

“Forgive me, but that’s exactly what a hallucination would say. If it spoke.”

Something inside Eggsy _twists_ at that. Hidden from view under the desk, Eggsy clenches at his Ikea shark. He releases his grip and slowly reaches with that same left hand across the desk, letting it hang in the air.

“Go on,” He implores gently, “Touch me. I’m real.”

The expression on Harry’s face is blank, but doubt flickers past as he stares at Eggsy’s hand.

Ever so slowly, Harry’s right hand begins to reach for him. It fucking feels like forever. But then Harry’s hand stops a few _centimetres_ from Eggsy’s, like maybe he doesn’t want to know, like he’s scared. It forces Eggsy to slightly extend his fingers to brush against Harry’s.

That seems to be all it takes for Harry to gingerly hold the back of Eggsy’s hand--and Eggsy isn’t sure if Harry’s pulling it closer or if _he’s_ the one reaching for the side of Harry’s face.

Harry’s eyes are sliding shut as he leans against Eggsy’s palm, and Eggsy’s never felt so fucking... _honoured_ in his life. The waves of overwhelming emotions leave him breathing shallow, especially when Harry turns his head slightly, his lips brushing against the heel of Eggsy’s palm.

“...I lied.” The words leave Eggsy’s dry mouth, accompanied by a guilty sweep of his stomach. “...Sort of.”

“Hmm?”

“You’re not hallucinating, exactly--” Eggsy tries to stop himself, he does, but--"You’re dreaming.”

Eyes still closed, Harry sighs like he knew it all along.

Eggsy watches him, swallowing. “...Harry?”

Harry opens his eyes slightly. It seems to be all he can manage in his exhaustion.

But Eggsy’s arm is short and he has it stretching across the desk to Harry and it’s starting to cramp up.

“Harry,” Eggsy repeats senselessly, not knowing what to say, because if he complains he might break the moment and he doesn’t want that.

The strange thing is that Harry seems to understand, murmuring against Eggsy’s palm, “Come here.”

Eggsy’s heart pounds. Going around the desk would force him to let go, and by instinct he starts to get up and crawl on the desk over Harry’s things, leaving the Ikea shark behind on the chair.

It’s a dream anyway, isn’t it? Dreams are odd like that. The worst part is he doesn’t know whether or not he wants Harry to remember.

Because Eggsy can’t possibly forget the way Harry is looking up at him, the way he laces their fingers together against his cheek.

Sitting on the back of his legs, Eggsy waits on the edge of the desk, managing to stop himself from climbing onto Harry’s lap.

Jesus christ, what the fuck is he doing?

His heartbeat is pounding in his ears and his blood is rushing south and he’s trying not to shake.

God, Harry looks _so_ tired and he’s barely keeping his eyes open but that’s what he’s doing, just looking up at Eggsy like that’s all he wants to do, like it’s worth staying awake for.

Eggsy takes a slow deep breath, thumbing at Harry’s cheekbone. Harry’s eyes shut. It gives Eggsy the courage he needs to carefully move forward, to settle his knees on Harry’s chair, Harry’s thighs inbetween.

When Harry opens his eyes, it’s full of wonder and Eggsy wants to drown in it.

“It’s a dream,” Eggsy finds himself saying again, doing his best not to sit on Harry’s lap. The weight might wake him up and snap him out of it. That’s fucking terrifying.

“Mmm.”

“You can do whatever you want.”

_Come on, come on, come on._

Harry’s left hand cautiously comes up, hovering on the side of Eggsy’s face. It’s torture not to lean against it.

He doesn’t have to suffer for long because Harry’s touching him, fingers grazing up his scalp, through his hair, and Eggsy can’t help the sigh that escapes him, can’t help but break, hiding his face against Harry’s neck. His deep slow breaths are near trembling.

“You could have kissed me, you know,” He mutters, blindly mirroring his actions and reaching to play with Harry’s hair with both hands--even then, Harry doesn’t let go of their interlaced fingers as he huffs softly with something like amusement.

Which is offensive as hell, okay? ‘Cos--

Harry presses his lips against Eggsy’s cheek, prompting a noise in Eggsy’s throat as he loses the air in his lungs. He pulls away from Harry’s neck to face him directly, a mere few inches away.

“On the lips, Harry.”

Eggsy feels the slight nudge of Harry’s nose first, and then their lips are brushing against each other, dry, barely there, but _fuck--_

Eggsy’s knees weakens and he sits on Harry’s thighs. The goosebumps are relentless and it’s _dumb_ , but his toes _curl_.

He breathes against Harry’s mouth, trying not to whine.

“A real kiss, Harry.”

Harry presses his lips harder against his, tilting his head slightly, and god--it’s so fucking _chaste_ , Eggsy wants to die.

When Harry pulls away a fraction, Eggsy helplessly leans forward just to be that close again. They stay there for a while, breathing against each other with eyes closed.

Fucking hell.

Eggsy wants more, he wants to ask for more, he wants to _take_ more. But Harry doesn't even know, does he? He thinks he’s dreaming. The man’s that fucking exhausted and out of it.

Guilt swirls in Eggsy’s stomach.

But then he senses Harry pull away further to look at him and when Eggsy tries to follow, he’s stopped by a palm on his neck.

Agitated, Eggsy’s forced to open his eyes despite the shame of being that fucking needy. But Harry’s not even looking at him, he’s looking down.

There aren't even any words Eggsy is capable of articulating in his desperation, so he just ends up whining in question and complaint.

Right hand in a gentle clutch on Eggsy’s hair, Harry shushes him soothingly and goes on to speak, hoarse and barely audible in its softness, “...May I kiss you here?”

“ _Hngf_?" The words are so unbelievable that Eggsy's mind goes blank. It’s only the thumb circling on his throat that brings him back.

“Here," Harry repeats.

Eggsy isn’t even fucking sure what he’s on about but--" _Anywhere_ , Harry, bloody hell, why are you even asking--”

“Of course I have to ask," Harry murmurs, leaning in closer. So is Eggsy, but then Harry’s tilting his head and nosing down the side of Eggsy’s neck, and--

Eggsy takes a sharp intake of breath at Harry’s mouth on the centre of his throat. Or somewhere there anyway, Eggsy doesn't know what the fuck’s going on or if that’s just random. Does Harry have a favourite spot to kiss someone on?

Either way, Eggsy helplessly arches his neck, fingers roving on Harry’s head, holding him close.

After a few moments of nothing more, Eggsy sighs, “What else, Harry? Come on, s’okay. Tell me.”

Eggsy almost suspects that Harry’s already asleep but then there are fingers low on the right side of his face. Which could mean anything, but he remembers the thumb that used to be on his throat. “There? You wanna kiss me there, go on then." He doesn’t know what the fuck is _there_ , exactly, or if Harry’s just bullshitting him in his exhaustion and pointing to random places. “Go on, have a go.”

Eggsy doesn't give a damn fucking shit which explanation it is.

When Harry moves, he only hides against the crook of Eggsy’s neck, slightly shaking his head.

“Why? What’s wrong? C’mon," He pets at his hair, encouraging, but Harry just stays there.

The reply is so quiet that he almost doesn't hear it: “Just one.”

...Oh _hell_ no. There ain’t gonna be no damn quota on kisses. What good is that for? For _whose_ good is that for?

No one, that’s what.

“Harry," Eggsy begins, stern, but Harry’s just shaking his head again and there’s something... _sad_ about it that Eggsy just doesn’t understand quite yet.

But it’s there regardless, and Eggsy starts to feel guilty again. “Okay, alright, you’re tired, ain’t you?”

There’s a barely imperceptible nod.

“That’s okay. Go back to sleep--I mean--" He backtracks, remembering the reality of this shitty situation. The guilt worsens. “Going to sleep in the dream world is good ‘cos you focus on sleeping and not messing about, which makes you less tired and you might even wake up soon for reals.”

God, this is messed up.

What the _fuck_? What if Harry really was hallucinating? Like, what if he was hallucinating someone else instead of Eggsy?

Jesus.

He pushes the thoughts away, that’ll be for later. For now--"Should I take you to bed?" Eggsy offers thoughtlessly. First of all, sleeping while sitting up is not only weird but kinda sad. He wants Harry to be comfortable--But damn, Eggsy fucked up.

‘Cos if Harry wakes up somewhere else from where he slept, he might just suspect something. He might remember. And as much as Eggsy wants him to...He can’t.

He fucked up.

But Harry’s shaking his head with more insistence and thankfully that’s that.

For Eggsy, being on his knees for a long time isn't a good feeling, even on a padded chair. Eggsy’s circulation’s all fucked up from having folded his legs and he’s starting to feel the annoying electric-like cramps. Still, Eggsy wishes he could stay here forever.

Because Harry’s relaxed now, despite having his face against Eggsy's neck--Can he even breathe proper?--He has his arms wrapped around Eggsy’s waist and he’s just...asleep, probably.

And it’s nice.

Eggsy wants to stay. He wants to be here when Harry wakes up. But he knows he can't.

They’ll do this again, that’s for sure. But Harry will be awake for that. Awake and not...exhausted and possibly hallucinating, that is.

As much as it pains him, Eggsy starts to reach for Harry’s hands behind him to move them away.

They don't budge.

Eggsy huffs softly against Harry’s hair, putting his arms around shoulders. “Okay, alright.”

He’ll just have to wait it out.

 

 

 


	30. 29

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> just...  
> words  
> ...and...actions  
> draggy nonsense

 

** I **

 

 

 

Harry wakes up, partly startled and disoriented.

He sits up, blinking at his surroundings and trying to get his bearings. When his hand instinctively clenches, there’s nothing but thin air.

He frowns.

How long has he been asleep for?

Glancing at his watch, it is clear that he’s had about three hours--Which is rather surprising. Three hours is such a bloody luxury these days, and he doesn’t even feel like shit the way he initially expected to.

The only question is, what woke him up?

Harry stays there for a moment before standing up and making his way downstairs, passing through the hallway and the foyer to open his front door.

Appearing rather stunned, Eggsy smiles rather awkwardly and gestures at him with what Harry realises are finger-guns. “Hey--I woke you up, huh?”

The relief and contentment that Harry usually feels at the sight of him is overwhelmed by the guilt. And he shouldn’t feel that way. He shouldn’t. Narrowing his eyes slightly at the plastic bag around Eggsy’s wrist, Harry tilts his head. “Were you actually knocking on my door instead of breaking in?”

There’s a pause before Eggsy scoffs. “Well, you always complaining, so--and isn’t that gentlemanly of me for a change? Seems those lessons are paying off, Mr. Hart. Next thing you know, I’ll be at your beck and call.”

Harry purses his lips. Having been in a mission halfway around the world did nothing to clear his head from Eggsy. He should at least have a day of reprieve.

Eggsy wiggles the plastic bag. “I got you food--Italian. You gonna let me in?”

“...Well, if you’re bribing me,” Harry mutters despite his better judgement, opening the door wider. “Just this once. I don’t encourage such behaviours.”

“What, there’s a limit again?” Eggsy clicks his tongue, following him inside. “Why you always limiting yourself?”

“Lock the--” Harry hears the door lock. Such a casual sound shouldn’t be so ominous. Either way, he pushes through. There are things to be done, after all. “You can leave that in the kitchen for now. Come up to the office, we have matters to discuss.”

“M’kay,” Eggsy responds dutifully. It’s even more worrying. However, Harry still hears the plastic bag as they’re halfway up the stairs and he’s too tired to reprimand him. Eggsy starts to hum a random tune. There’s something... _purposely_ disarming about it. Suspicious. “Lemme stop by my room though.”

Harry nods automatically, realising too late that--"No." He abruptly blocks the door as Eggsy reaches for the handle.

Eggsy blinks at him, slowly raising his eyebrows. “...D’you have a lady hidden away in here or something?”

“No.”

“...D’you have a _gentleman_ hidden awa--”

“No.”

“Then…?”

To be fair, after the big fallout from that glorious misunderstanding regarding Michelle Unwin, Harry genuinely thought that Eggsy wouldn't come back. Ever. There was no reason to dwell on it, it was better that way. But Harry...ended up buying things that he couldn't quite give Eggsy, ones that he knew weren't going to be accepted or ones that he couldn't find the proper time and explanation for.

Eggsy stares at him patiently, waiting. “I need to change into my sweats. I’ve been on the tube with half of London and I’d like to take a shower, actually, but as you said, we’ve got stuff to get to, so--" He holds out the plastic bag until Harry takes it, resigned and muttering.

“I _did_ tell you to leave it in the kitchen, what’s the point of bringing it up here--”

Eggsy opens the door, and Harry, for all his training and experience, can’t find any excuses to give. But Eggsy only goes straight for the wardrobe on the left and sets his rucksack on the floor, unbuttoning his jacket.

Harry immediately looks away. “I’ll close the door--”

“Hey, wait--what’re those?" Eggsy asks, seemingly having done a double-take, peering over at the items on the bedside table. “Ain’t those the London Zoo stuff?”

Clearing his throat, Harry keeps his eyes to the far wall. He’s not certain what it is, perhaps it’s the intimacy of the small room, its silence only disturbed by the occasional sounds of shifting fabric, but Harry finds himself vulnerable and honest.

Perhaps it’s because he’s more than halfway decided on the long-term mission. He’s stalling and he knows it, waiting for a reason to change his mind and convince him otherwise. Some manifestation of false hope perhaps, but the truth is this:

“...I wanted you to have them, I simply didn’t think you’d let me get them for you.” The silence grows tumultuous but Harry can’t quite pin it down. Either way, he makes a decision. “It’s fine, it won’t go to waste, I’ll donate them--”

“No,” Eggsy suddenly says, stern, forcing Harry’s eyes to him. Thankfully, he’s already dressed in some comfortable sweats. The more pressing issue is, in what world would Eggsy say no to giving to the less fortunate?

Eyes meeting Harry’s head on, Eggsy simply declares, “They’re mine.”

Harry hates all the parts of himself that becomes utterly _pleased_ at the words. He attempts to chuckle, partly challenging, “But do you even like them?”

“Of course I do,” Eggsy responds without a beat, wiping his hands back and forth with a wet wipe of some kind. “I’ll like anything you give me, Harry.”

With the way Eggsy’s looking at him, expression mild, Harry can’t help but think that he _knows_. He knows and he’s testing Harry, waiting and watching. The paranoia is a grim reality he has to deal with. His mental health is already disturbed as it is, Harry can’t possibly dwell on this. He doesn’t even know how much of his sanity he has left.

So he hums, non-committal. “Hmm. I doubt that, Eggsy.”

“Well, yeah, I--” Eggsy purses his lips, looking away and pulling a new wipe out from a container, rubbing at his face. “I might not _say_ it--obviously--but I mean, what teenager would admit to wanting a plush toy and other... _childish_ things? Come on--I don’t _like_ it as a principle, but if you get it for me, then yeah, I--I might just like it.”

Harry watches him, mind going a hundred miles per hour of all the things he could possibly--

“Don’t even think about it.”

Harry purses his lips. “But you’ve just said--”

“I said I like it, but don’t make it a _habit_ ,” Eggsy enunciates, raising a chiding eyebrow at Harry. “C’mon, I also don’t say it because it might _encourage_ you. You already buy me stuff as it is--which is great, but, y’know, moderation, Harry. Moderation. You’re gonna go bankrupt, I swear.”

 _I don’t mind_ , Harry immediately thinks, but then he gets a bit of sanity back and he makes a point to remember to set aside a certain amount of money for the university fees. What use would he be to Eggsy then?

“Go on to the office,” Eggsy says, “I’ll be right there.”

Instead of asking what else he could possibly need to do with him already dressed in his sweats, Harry simply looks down at the bag in his hand and mutters, “I’ll put this in the kitchen.”

“Nuh-uh. We can eat in the office.”

“No, we cannot,” Harry responds, eyebrows raised in mild offence. “The office is for _work_ , Eggsy.”

“We’ll see about that,” He mutters under his breath and huffs. “Look, just--” Eggsy makes his way closer, snatching the bag away and gently ushering Harry out. “Go to the office, I’ll be just a few.”

That’s when Harry realises he hasn’t eaten a genuine meal for more than twenty-four hours.

 

\--

 

Jesus fucking Christ. Now Eggsy can be mortified in private.

‘ _I’ll like whatever you give me._ ’

Really?

God.

He catches sight of Galahad, hidden vertically in the corner of the wardrobe. “Don’t look at me like that. His face was blank and everything. Gave nothing away.”

Glancing at the clock on his desk, he can’t help but feel guilty that Harry’s only had like three hours of sleep. Eggsy had fucked off earlier and hatched a plan to come back like everything was fine and normal. He changed back into his clothes and went to the food stalls on Whitecross Market for some cheap quality Italian. After that, he just happened to end up back at Harry’s front door, struggling to make the right choice to leave. He was honestly about to decide on breaking in and leaving the food behind before slipping out quietly.

Because it was better that way, to give Harry some space and some time, especially to get some actual rest and sleep, but hell, Harry had opened the door and that was that.

Eggsy didn’t even knock or nothing though.

So it can’t entirely be his fault, right?

Besides, Lestrade’s anniversary party is tonight, and Eggsy wants to know if Harry’s still going. And if he’s going with Eggsy’s mum.

Just ‘cos.

Reasons.

She was very...evasive about the whole thing.

Eggsy huffs, taking Galahad under his arm and carrying the plastic bag of food along with his rucksack as he makes his way out and into the office.

Despite the laptop being open, Harry’s staring at the balcony windows from his desk, seemingly spacing out.

Eggsy gently throws the massive Ikea shark on the desk. Galahad’s so fucking light anyway, he just bounces a little and stares up sideways at Harry.

Harry, who’s staring back down at him with brows furrowed.

“What.”

“I shoved him in my rucksack so the tube wouldn’t muck him up. Now he’s all lumpy. I tried fluffing him back up proper, now it’s your turn.”

Setting the bag of food on the desk, Eggsy sits on the chair and fishes through his rucksack for the handwriting journal. The next time he looks up, Harry’s awkwardly fluffing the Ikea shark with both hands, frowning.

Jesus. Eggsy stupidly wishes he could take a picture.

‘Cos he’s gay as fuck, obviously.

Christ.

Shaking his head, he tries to concentrate on unpacking the food, hiding a smile.

“Eat,” Eggsy orders as he busies himself. “I’ve got some utensils here. Even some napkins and some wet wipes, see? No mess.” He takes them all out and arranges them in front of Harry. After that, he grabs Galahad back, setting him halfway on the desk and on his lap before Eggsy leans against him, watching Harry expectantly.

Harry stares back.

Eggsy squints. “Do you want me to feed you? I can--” Harry snatches the utensils before Eggsy can reach for them. Victorious, Eggsy props his chin up with a hand, content to watch him eat. “How’s’it?”

“It’s very well done. Thank you, Eggsy.”

“Mmm.”

But only after three forkfuls, Harry focuses on his computer, typing one-handed. “Before we get to some lessons, I’d like to ask some questions.”

“...Huh?”

“Partly work-related. I’m asking for your input.”

Eggsy’s torn between scowling and preening because one, he hates Harry’s job, but on the other hand, Harry’s asking for his opinion. He can never really win, can he?

“Depends,” Eggsy decides.

“On what?” Harry raises an eyebrow.

“I have some questions first.”

“...If we’re going that route, I believe the phrase would be ‘I asked you first’.”

Eggsy narrows his eyes, but he can’t help the ultimate smile that he tries to cover up with a scoff. “Okay, alright. Proceed,” He grants magnanimously.

“Aren’t you going to eat as well, or…?”

Ah, right, Eggsy almost forgot. He’s hungry as _fuck_. Taking a fork, he starts picking from a few of the containers, waving for Harry to continue.

Clearing his throat, Harry begins, “...I have a friend who--” He suddenly stops, probably because Eggsy’s raising his eyebrows so high in immediate suspicion. “Alright, I have a _colleague_ …” He trails off like he’s waiting to see if that’s more believable to Eggsy. Precious.

“Mhm.” Eggsy nods, playing along. ‘Cos when people say that theoretical _‘I have a friend'_ bullshit, they’re really talking about themselves, aren’t they?

“He’ll be moving his family to London and--”

Eggsy manages to cover his mouth as he starts to cough and cough. Fucking bit of pasta got stuck in the wrong pipe. Jesus. He immediately grabs his rucksack, fishing for all the drinks in there.

Concerned, Harry begins to stand, but Eggsy waves a hand as he chugs down half the water in the bottle. “M’fine, I’m good. Great. Fantastic. Relax.”

Family? What the fuck?

But Harry said he wasn’t married, said he was _never_ married, so _Eggsy_ should chill.

But that doesn’t mean he doesn’t have children from like...previous partners.

Oh god, oh no.

Maybe he’s talking about relatives?

“For hell’s sake, Eggsy,” Harry reprimands, firm, “Be _careful_.” He goes on to mutter darkly, “I cannot avenge your death by pasta.”

“Well, you could always take over the world and _ban_ pasta,” Eggsy suggests awkwardly, huffing, doing the finger-guns again. “Sorry, what was the question? Go on, keep going.”

Pursing his lips, Harry continues. “This _colleague_ , he was asking me for assistance in his transfer to the city, in regards to communities and real estate and the like.”

“...Uhuh,” Eggsy intones, trying not to let on that he’s literally on the edge of his seat.

“He has a teenage son…”

Eggsy stabs a juice-box with a straw, grinding his teeth. “... _Uhuh_ …”

“I was looking at some properties for him and I realised it was remiss of me not to consider his son, but I wouldn’t know what a teenage boy would like in a home--other than the cliché, of course, but I didn’t want to generalise a whole generation--so I thought I would ask you.”

Trying to wrap his head around this whole situation, Eggsy stalls, sucking hard and slow on the straw.

Harry isn’t talking about himself. He can’t be.

God, what _if_ he has a son? How would Harry’s son take it if Eggsy was dating his dad and calling him ‘Daddy’?

Fucking mortifying.

_God, no, please, I will go to church--For like, a month. On Sundays._

Taking a deep breath through his nose, Eggsy releases the straw from the torture. “Look, okay, you said you didn’t want to generalise a whole generation. Just because you ask me what I want doesn’t mean _that_ teenager will want the same thing. And what _is_ a teenager anyway? That could mean anything. How old is he?”

“...Around sixteen--almost.”

“Okay, so, almost legal. If your ‘colleague’ is as rich as you are, then his son could probably fuck off and get his own place. Problem solved.”

Leaning back on his chair, Harry rubs at his chin. “...You’re making this very difficult…”

Eggsy shrugs, returning to his juice-box before he abruptly stops at a sudden realisation. “Shit. I didn’t get you drinks, huh?” Fucking _dumb arse_. What if _Harry_ was the one choking? He could have died and Eggsy probably would have taken a swim in the Thames and never come back. Jesus. "Here," Eggsy offers his juice-box hastily, and Harry’s hand absently takes it.

“Eggsy…”

“Mmm?”

“I’d like you to do something for me…”

He instinctively clutches Galahad at the words. “Uhuh…?”

“Humour me.”

“Humour you in what?”

“This...endeavour of mine.” Harry slowly brings up the juice-box and sips at the straw, which--

Holy shit.

Holy _shit_.

Eggsy doesn’t think he’s ever seen Harry drink from a juice-box, has he? Jesus fucking christ, posh gentleman Harry Hart drinking from a small juice-box and sipping on a straw. A straw that Eggsy just drank from--

At the sudden tingle in his mouth, Eggsy clears his throat, subtly rubbing at his lips to get rid of the sensation. “Okay,” He tells him, hoping he doesn’t sound too hoarse. He doesn’t even know what he’s exactly agreeing to. “I’ll humour you. Whatever you want, Harry.”

Eggsy pushes the bottle of water towards him too. “Here, just in case.”

Harry blinks, gaze moving to the juice-box in his hand. He slowly puts it down on the desk.

“Harry?”

“Yes. Right. Pretending you can get anything you want, what would you like in a home?”

 _You_.

Damn. Called it. That damn cliché shit. Really fucking gay.

Pretending to think about the question, Eggsy briefly resorts to covering his mouth instead of face-palming. “Well, what are my options here?”

“Anything. Everything.”

“Tsk. Spoiling this boy, Harry,” Eggsy grumbles in complaint. “I don’t know. Just a roof over my head. Comfortable? Something I can live with. Longer times for heated water in the bathroom would be nice. Probably don’t need a central air system. I can live with a fan--Like the rest of the country. Same for winter. There’s a twenty quid fan heater from somewhere like Tesco.”

Harry stares at him. “What did I say about humouring me?”

“I am!” Eggsy protests. “A rich teenager might not be comfortable with what I just listed, but that’s why it’s a bad idea to ask me. I can survive with all those things. He probably can’t--I mean, he _could_ , but he wouldn’t want to.”

“Right. Yes. But I don’t want you to just survive, I want you to be...more than comfortable. Perhaps I even want you to enjoy yourself, enjoy the house that you live in.”

Eggsy frowns, starting to get uncomfortable. Don’t get him wrong, he’d like to have nice things, but thinking about it-- _Letting_ himself think about it is something he just tries not to do. Because he won’t get it. So what’s the point? He’ll just want and want and never have and he’ll suffer for it.

But then again, Harry is his exception.

Eggsy mulls it over, sucking in his cheek.

To be fair, Harry seems to be really into it. Maybe this is really important for work. Maybe Harry can even have friends---Wait, doesn’t Harry already have friends? Eggsy wouldn’t know. Does Lestrade count?

If not, this would be good, wouldn’t it? Eggsy assumes Harry’s doing well enough at work, but it’s always better to _more_ than get along with co-workers and stuff. Work will be easier to get through. Considering how Harry is when he gets back from his job, he’ll probably need it. Like, Eggsy assumes Harry's polite and stuff, but extra brownie points with co-workers will help.

“M’kay, alright.” Determined, he leans back in his chair, hugging Galahad tight as he thinks it through. “I might need some suggestions and a bit of help though--”

“Room size, perhaps? I assumed it was small but I didn’t know it was _that_ small until--” Harry stops and Eggsy shoots him an unamused look. Honestly, a teenager wanks off in a room, and that’s what he got from it. Room size. So offensive.

“A bedroom is for a bed.” Eggsy finds himself defensive about it. “It’s where people go to sleep and wake up in the morning, it doesn’t need to be that big.”

“Alright, but…?”

“Okay, so maybe a _bit_ bigger.”

“Right, that’s what I thought,” Harry murmurs, opening up a leather notebook and writing on it while blindly tapping the keyboard with the other hand, arm crossing the other. Eggsy gives him a weird look, but he obviously doesn't see it. “How big do you want it?”

Eggsy shrugs. “I dunno.”

“So any large-sized bedroom would be--”

“Okay, _woah_ , wait, wait--” Eggsy raises a finger. “What’s the opposite word of claustrophobia?”

“...Why?”

“Look, there _is_ a thing like a room that’s _too_ big, you know what I mean? ‘Cos--Oh wait, right, teenager with a rich dad. He’ll be used to that then,” Eggsy snorts, rolling his eyes.

“...But for you..?”

“Nah. Something bigger than my room, but not...massive, you know?” He picks up the fork again, picking at the food.

“Please don’t tell me it’s going to be like this as we go on,” Harry mutters.

Eggsy chews, mouth full. “Like what?”

“The Goldilocks objective of the middle ground. _‘Something like this, but not like that’_ ,” Harry provides.

Eggsy scowls. “The perfect middle, Harry. I want to live in a bloody mansion as much as I want to live in a place like the old woman who lived in a shoe.”

“...You want to live in a shoe?” Harry repeats, blank.

“No! That’s the point, oh my god.”

“What’s wrong with a mansion?” Harry frowns.

Eggsy gives him a dry look. “Babe, even _you_ don’t live in a mansion. And you _could--_ ”

“Alright, but--”

“But you _don’t_ ,” Eggsy emphasises to make a point.

Harry purses his lips, scratching out something in his notebook. “Moving on…”

Eggsy doesn’t really need that much prompting now that he’s all worked up about it. “I want something...cozy.”

“... _‘Cozy’_ ,” Harry repeats, clearly not understanding what that means. “Do you want to live in the Cotswolds?”

There’s a beat of silence before a laugh escapes Eggsy. “Ain’t that a thought? Me in the Cotswolds!”

“This is a serious consideration--”

“Well, that depends, do _you_ want to live in the Cotswolds?” Eggsy’s lived in London all his life. He’s used to the madness and the noise and the filth. It’ll be a bit difficult to adjust at first, but if Harry wants to live in the Cotswolds, then sure, he can do it.

It’ll be nice, Eggsy reckons. Peace and quiet.

Okay, so he’ll probably need to come back to London every other weekend, but yeah, he can do it.

Harry frowns. “I don’t mind it, but the point is--”

“Ah, shit, right. Your colleague’s moving to London, sorry, got off-track there,” Eggsy grimaces.

“No, no,” Harry assures him, turning a page and writing fast. “That is something to consider as well, the boy might go to Oxford. The closest Cotswolds area to the university would make it about a thirty minute drive.”

Eggsy squints. What a spoiled arse brat. And who is this co-worker anyway, getting Harry to do all his real estate work for him? Goddamn. Harry shouldn’t be over-thinking what some teenage boy might want or need. If Eggsy wasn’t already hugging Galahad, he’d be crossing his arms in defiance. Instead, he stabs another pasta and chews it with absolute distaste.

“Who’s this boy anyway? Have you met him?”

Harry’s brows furrow. “No.”

Eggsy squints harder. “Really?”

“...Yes?”

“Is that a yes for the first question or a hesitation on your second answer?” He immediately counters.

“...Eggsy, focus.”

Eggsy sniffs and turns away, pursing his lips. “Whatever.”

“What is ‘cozy’ by your definition?”

He shrugs. “Dunno. A teenage boy with a rich dad is gonna have a different definition of cozy than I will.”

“Humour me.”

Eggsy rolls his eyes. “I don’t know. A house with okay-sized rooms; An okay-sized kitchen, an okay-sized bathroom, and so on.”

“Alright, let’s focus on the specific rooms. Kitchen?”

“I don’t know what you want me to say. Fridge, oven, range cooker, microwave, sink, cupboards?”

“Bigger cupboards than the ones you have, yes?”

Eggsy throws a hand up in the air. “Anything in the flat could be bigger, _yes_. Even _everything_. Let’s get that out of the way, yes, I’m poor. Cheers, Haz.”

Harry stops and looks at him, sincere and careful in his words. “You do know that I mean no offence by--”

“Yes, yes, I know. I’m just...bitter sometimes, let’s move on.”

“Any improvements you would like in the kitchen?”

Eggsy sighs. “Honestly?” Just thinking about it is embarrassing. And thinking about _wanting_ to make it better feels like betraying his mum. She’s doing her best, he knows. He tries not to squirm as he lists it out, “Just updated appliances? Fridge could be bigger. Write that down. Teenagers get hungry, like, three hundred percent more than others. Kitchen sink...I’d want those deep fancy two-sinks that are side by side.”

“...Those are...not fancy,” Harry hesitates halfway.

“No, I suppose not,” Eggsy considers, choosing not to give him any shit about it. “But the flat only has one and it’s small.”

Harry nods. “Anything else?”

Eggsy shrugs, picking at the food. “Washing machine in the house would be nice, so me and my mum don’t have to go out for it.”

“Of course. Dishwasher?”

“...Don’t really need it. Me and my mum wash our own dishes. But,” He recalls his routine in Harry’s house, “Like what _we_ do here, it’s a luxury to put them in the dishwasher after for that extra clean. Which is nice. But unnecessary. Could be a waste of water. I can live without it.”

Harry seems to be shaking his head. “Speaking of luxury, what else would you like that you wouldn’t necessarily ‘need’?”

Eggsy blinks. “...Oh! You know that thing where--” He stops, already embarrassed. Harry raises an eyebrow, prompting him to go on. “Okay, so...you’ve seen those fancy houses on telly or films right? And they have those things in the kitchen, it’s like...a counter, but it isn’t connected to the counter, it’s like a table, all on its own. Sometimes that’s where they put the sink or the range cooker, it’s mental--it’s…” Eggsy struggles to name it.

“...A kitchen island counter,” Harry haltingly provides.

“Yes!” Eggsy points a fork towards him. “That makes sense. I feel stupid. Thanks.”

“No one’s meant to know every single thing, Eggsy, it’s fine.”

Eggsy just chews on more pasta, grumbling.

Harry continues on in his weird-arse survey. “Anything else?”

“Them fancy fridges with the ice stuff," Eggsy admits. On second thought, even though Harry doesn’t have it for some reason, that’s probably a basic fridge model for rich people, so it probably shouldn't even be said.

But Harry’s nodding, murmuring under his breath. “Of course. Sizeable freezer for desserts as well-- Moving on to the bathroom--” Harry looks up at him. “Well, it’s a _bath_ room, you’d need a bathtub, yes?”

Frowning, Eggsy disagrees. “Not necessarily. The amount of water you’d waste compared to a shower is--”

“Please don’t think about the cost--”

“Ah, yeah, right, this is for some teenage boy with a rich daddy,” Eggsy drawls, petulant, “ _Forgive me_ ,” He mocks, spearing more pasta with his fork.

Harry pauses, staring down at his notebook. “...Have you actually had a bath before?”

The silence goes on for a split second longer than it should and now Eggsy isn’t sure if it’s tense or awkward. “Well--”

“Don’t answer that.”

Eggsy narrows his eyes, holding out a forkful of pasta in challenge. Harry isn’t even looking, eyes on his notebook, but he seems to be leaning towards it, turning his head and opening his mouth and--

Harry freezes, mouth already enveloping the tip of the fork.

Eggsy clicks his tongue. “Nuh-uh--Eat it and I’ll tell you.”

Clearly displeased, Harry chews, mumbling, “I don’t even wish to know.”

 _Look_ at him, breaking the basic rules of etiquette. Eggsy’s arse over fucking tits. Ridiculously satisfied, he sighs. “Other than when I was a baby, probably not. I don’t remember taking a bath in my life. Just showering. Unless the swimming pool counts.”

“It’s a _bath_ room. There _will_ be a bath,” Harry mutters, final, taking Eggsy’s fork and spearing more food.

“Okay, alright, whatever you say,” Eggsy humours him, watching him eat.

“The bathroom downstairs is a shower-tub hybrid, are you telling me you’ve never--”

“ _No_ , I wouldn’t just come to your house and waste your water like that,” Eggsy argues.

Resigned, Harry sighs. “A nice warm bath is good every once in a while.”

“So you’re a bath man?” Eggsy contains a smile, eager for an answer.

Harry purses his lips. “I barely have time to indulge in such things. Moving on--" He looks back down to his notebook and Eggsy blindly reaches back in his rucksack on the floor because--

“Hey, you got a little something…” Eggsy points to his own mouth, but Harry isn’t even looking.

“Hmm?" Harry hums distractedly.

Eggsy pulls out a handkerchief and psyches himself up for what he’s about to do. As much as he’d like to use his bare fingers, he has to start with the gentleman etiquette stuff. Hopefully it’ll be as torturous for Harry the way it was for Eggsy when the situation was reversed. Some payback would be nice, honestly.

Reaching across the desk to wipe at the corner of Harry’s mouth, Eggsy tries to keep his cool. At first, it seems like Eggsy succeeds with how casual he does it, Harry doesn't even react.

All of a sudden, Harry’s nose flares and his jaw clenches as he flinches back, staring down at the handkerchief.

Genuinely rattled, Eggsy freezes halfway in pulling his arm back because Harry’s holding it.

“R. H. A?” Harry says, flat.

Eggsy blinks, puzzled, before he follows Harry’s gaze to the monogram on the handkerchief.

 

‘ _R. H. A._ ,’ it reads in a fancy script, the H in the middle slightly towering over the two letters.

 

It stupidly takes Eggsy a second longer than it should to fucking realise--

"Shit--” Eggsy manages to pull away this time, shoving the blasted thing back in his bag and out of sight as he burns in a mixture of shame and guilt. “ _Shit_ , sorry, I--Wrong one. I wasn’t paying attention when I packed this morning, I thought it was yours--" Eggsy bites his tongue. There’s something really fucking wrong about that.

“Then _whose_ \--”

“I got it from a charity shop for two quid ‘cos I thought it was time for me to get my own," Eggsy rattles off, frantically ripping open the packet of wet wipes before hovering one over the side of Harry’s mouth. “Let me just--It was gross, I’m sorry, let me--” He wipes at the place where it touched Harry, spurred on by this unexplainable need.

“Eggsy, there’s no need for charity shops, I can--”

“Yes, yes--You _can_ , but you won’t ‘cos I won’t let you. I already have enough of yours," Eggsy tells him, managing to stop in time before he admits how many of Harry’s handkerchiefs he actually has hidden all over his room back at the flat, which--God, he didn’t even realise how much he had. He honestly doesn’t know the actual number count.

Harry still has that furrow on his brows and he just seems genuinely unsettled, eyes flicking down to where Eggsy’s rucksack should be on the other side of the desk.

“Eggsy…”

“...Yeah?”

“Burn it.” There’s something about the way he says it that makes Eggsy’s stomach flip.

Hidden from view under the desk, Eggsy’s hand clutches at the Ikea shark. “Why?”

“It smells horrid.”

Instead of arguing that it's just a particular cologne, Eggsy nods. “Okay." He tries to distract him before he can ask any more. “House hunting, Harry. Focus.”

It takes a moment for Harry to finally speak. “...On the topic of _burning_ , how about a fireplace?”

Eggsy only groans.

“You’re right," says Harry, “Fire hazard. Moving on, at least one storage room in the common areas?”

“Yeah, sure, why not?” Eggsy is quick to humour him. “Does he play any sports? He might have equipment, so yeah. But then if he’s rich and entitled as I think he is, he’s probably used to a massive room big enough to fit all his stuff.”

There’s a beat of silence where Harry opens his mouth and closes it.

Eggsy raises his eyebrows. “What?”

“...Would he...appreciate a swimming pool, do you think?”

Eggsy’s jaw drops and his eyes fucking narrow. “Okay, what the _hell_ is wrong with y--Look--Oh my god--Who _is_ this kid? Why does he get a swimming pool?” He exclaims, really annoyed and appalled now. Because how many minutes have they spent on this? Eggsy can’t believe Harry’s wasted so much time on this when he could be doing lessons with Eggsy.

It ain’t like he’s jealous or anything, but--

“Is that a yes or a no?”

“Oh my god! Probably, I don’t know--Jesus christ--but you’d be hard-pressed to find a house in London with a yard big enough for a sizeable swimming pool!” Eggsy attempts to discourage him.

“Well, it could be an indoor swimming pool,” Harry thinks out loud, writing on and _on_ in his notebook. “If it’s not there, it can simply be added as a renovation matter--It would only need planning consent from the city…Reputable engineers and architects would aid in the case...”

Eggsy clutches Galahad tighter, shoving his face against him to muffle the words. “Bloody fucking hell.”

“The point of _‘bloody hell’_ is to avoid the word _‘fuck’_ , darling, please,” Harry absently chides, _still_ writing. Fucking unbelievable. In more ways than one. Hearing Harry say _‘fuck’_ in that crisp tone is a religious experience--Eggsy wants to hear it some more, especially in the same sentence with _‘darling’_.

Probably just those two words in the same order with that _‘please’_ right after.

Fucking hell, now Eggsy has a complex, doesn’t he?

He probably needs to go to therapy or some shit.

God. He’s fucking ruined.

It’s great.

“What else, Harry?”

“Hmm. How many levels?”

“Honestly, one should be enough, but this is London, space is narrow, so two probably. But they’re rich, so whatever.”

“How about three?” Harry suggests, and it feels like a negotiation of some sort.

“Doable,” Eggsy allows. “Try to not go higher than that. Stairs, Harry. After a long day of work or school, no one wants to deal with it.”

“Very good, Eggsy, very thoughtful.” Harry nods, approving. He’s still multitasking between writing on the notebook and typing on the laptop, occasionally moving in his seat. And the way he does it is distracting to Eggsy because...honestly? It’s kinda cute. The chair moves with Harry when he twists and leans back in a certain angle or when he sits back up. It’s less ‘proper gentleman’ and more ‘I don’t give a shit, I probably need more sleep’.

Hell, it can even be described as fidgety. Or at least Harry’s version of it.

It’s so dumb to be making a big deal out of something so small, but Eggsy’s just taking it all in. So it takes him quite a bit to realise that Harry keeps talking. “As a student, would you say you do schoolwork better in a different place other than your bedroom?”

“...Huh---Like the library?”

“No, but--Would a student perform better if they had their own study room instead of a desk in their bedroom?”

Eggsy stares at him. Jesus fuck, is this what rich people worry about?  “Um, I don’t know. People are different.”

“You said it yourself, the bedroom is for sleeping. So would a study room be more beneficial to a student--”

“ _Well_ ,” Eggsy can’t help but drawl, raising his eyebrows in turns. “Not _only_ for sleeping.”

Harry blinks. “Yes, suppose you’d have those video games or some kind of similar technology--" Eggsy rolls his eyes, but he’s gonna give him a pass on this one. It’s a pretty smooth deflection. Kinda cute. “--Distracting. Nothing would get done.”

“Oh my god, Harry. It’s not like I have a telly in my room to play it on. I only have an SNES and I haven’t even played it for like seven years,” Eggsy finds the need to explain anyway. It used to be his dad’s. One of the few memories Eggsy has of him is the two of them playing video games, sat on the floor and staring up at the small box telly while his mum watched on in the background, amused. “I just kept it in my room ‘cos Dean or one of his goons probably would have gone and sold it.”

Somehow, Harry sits up straighter. “Yes, well--There’s no need to worry about any of them anymore.”

Eggsy frowns. He doesn’t actually know anything about that. More of Dean’s goons could still be out there.

 _Ah_.

Shit.

Forgetting how to breathe, Eggsy swallows.

Fuck, he’s been living too carefree these past few months. He didn’t even think--

“Eggsy,” Harry gently calls his attention, the sound of it somehow audible over Eggsy’s accelerating pulse. The way Harry meets his eyes is somewhat soothing. “I know it’s not my place to ask, but do you trust me--”

“--Yes.”

“...Then trust me when I say there is _nothing_ to worry about. Not from those people.”

Eggsy watches him for a few seconds, heartbeat settling down.

The thought is involuntary.

_I believe him._

Why does Eggsy believe him?

“How would you know?” He asks.

Harry glances down at his notebook. “Didn’t Inspector Lestrade tell you?”

“...Tell me what?”

“They’ve been caught. More or less.”

A part of Eggsy relaxes at that--But _‘more or less’_? What’s that supposed to mean?

Just as he opens his mouth to ask, Harry speaks first. “About the room size, what would be a comfortable one in your opinion?”

“...For the bedroom?”

“Yes.”

“Suppose...something like this office? Maybe even smaller. Depends on the bed really, but bed sizes much bigger than mine can fit in here no problem, so--How big is _your_ bedroom?”

“Mine? Hmm.” Harry distractedly writes in his notebook. “Slightly smaller than this room.”

“See? Perfect.”

“Overall,” Harry begins, “What are some things you’d prefer? In regards to the entire size of the house and the property?”

“I don’t know,” Eggsy admits, genuinely at a loss. He scours his brain. “Something comfortable? Not too big, not too small? That Goldilocks shite you were talking about? The size of this house is fine. Something smaller is even doable.”

Nodding along, Harry writes it all down. “And what about the _style_ of the house in general? Victorian, Regency, Georgian, Modern, and so on? The boy would likely prefer modern, wouldn’t he? Open plan instead of traditional?”

“...Why does it matter what the boy wants?” Eggsy finally asks. “It’s the father’s house, innit? Or the whole family’s.”

“He _is_ the family.”

Eggsy chews on the inside of his cheek at that, hating the sinking feeling of... _sympathy_. Because, yeah, that’s kinda sad. But--"Still, he’s just a boy, isn’t he? What does it matter what he wants? All these things we talked about, they’re bound to be expensive. And we’re in London, that’s gonna be bloody excessive. You spend all that money and...what? _Why?_ ”

“Because he loves him.”

“Okay, but--” Eggsy huffs softly--Harry has this dumbfounded look on his face, like maybe he doesn’t get why Eggsy doesn’t get it when it’s so simple to him but _still_ \--“It’s the father’s house too, innit?”

“He won’t be there.”

Brows furrowing, Eggsy frowns. “What?”

“I meant, he works most of the time. So of course, he wants him to be comfortable because the boy will be the one spending most of his time there.”

Eggsy nods. That’s understandable. Kinda sweet, actually. But he can see through it. “I’m pretty sure that kid’ll be better off in a slightly smaller house and wouldn’t even complain about it if his daddy was home often.”

“Well, yes, but daddy has to work.”

Rolling his eyes, Eggsy mutters under his breath, “Tell me about it.”

“Is that a yes on the Modern?”

“No,” Eggsy disagrees, “I still stand by my... _confusion_.”

“What are you confused about in particular?”

“...Okay, so I get the whole ‘ _I-can’t-spend-time-with-you-so-I’ll-overcompensate-with-stuff-that-costs-lots-of-money’_ thing, but to do that with a really expensive house is just...not smart. Like, you know?”

Harry’s lips thin and Eggsy raises a hand in an attempt to explain.

“No, just, look--He’s, what, sixteen? What if he changes his mind about what he wants or what he _thinks_ he wants? He’s just a kid, isn’t he?”

There’s a terribly long moment of silence. “...So that’s a no on the Modern.”

There’s something disquieting about this whole thing. Because when Eggsy thinks about it, thinks about being asked this question by someone else, he’d probably _say_ ‘Modern’. Like those fancy futuristic houses or flats he’s seen on the telly or them magazines. ‘Cos they’re cool, they’re impressive, but--

“It’s not home.”

“...Pardon?”

“I mean, he’s young, yeah, he probably thinks it’s cool--but it’s not--I mean it _could_ be--but I guess it’s just not for me.”

Harry watches him. “What _is_ home?”

“I don’t know,” Eggsy huffs, evasive. “It could mean anything.”

“To you,” Harry clarifies. “If you close your eyes, and I ask you to think about _home_ , what do you think about?”

Eggsy purses his lips. He wants to keep it that way, shut and sealed.

“...Eggsy, humour me,” Harry asks gently, but there’s this hint of...something to his voice. Exhaustion? Desperation? Eggsy doesn’t know. But he gives in, closing his eyes, leaning back in the chair, still hugging Galahad.

“I don’t--” Eggsy stops, trying to relax. He takes a deep breath and tries to keep his mind blank. “It’s warm.”

“Warm?”

“Yeah. It smells nice too--but you only remember to notice when you haven’t been home for a while. And _then_ you can tell. If you’re somewhere else, it’ll smell wrong, because you know it isn’t...right--But when you’re _home_ , you’ll _know_.” Eggsy doesn’t even know if he’s making any sense.

“...As wonderful as that is,” Harry begins, quiet, “I’m afraid that doesn’t narrow it down.”

Eggsy opens his eyes, slightly disappointed in himself. “Yeah. Sorry. But they’re rich, right? If they don’t like it and they change their minds, they can move somewhere else.”

“Speaking of which, communities--Which one do you prefer?”

“Well, let’s be cliché and get them something in Notting Hill.”

“Do you like Notting Hill?”

“The film?” Eggsy jokes, and Harry rolls his eyes but there’s a tiny smile in the corner of his mouth, he swears it. “Honestly, somewhere a bit more quiet would be nice. Less crowded too. But hell, it’s London. Nowhere is safe. Convenience to the nearest transport is a compromise when it comes to the crowd and the noise.”

“Give me your top three.”

“Depends on where he goes to school, doesn’t it? Or where the dad goes to work,” Eggsy stalls, trying to think of something else.

“Eggsy.”

“Kensington?” He blurts, failing.

“...Here?”

“Yeah, _somewhere_ here...”

“Kensington…?” Harry prompts. “You’re going to have to be more specific.”

“I dunno,” Eggsy mumbles, raising Galahad higher to hide behind him. “Holland Park? High Street Kensington?...South Kensington?”

If Eggsy ever meets this boy, he’s gonna throttle him. Don’t think he won’t.

“Anywhere else not in Kensington?”

Eggsy shrugs, talking random shit. “Bayswater?”

“...Right to the north of Hyde Park?”

Shit. He’s right. That’s embarrassing.

Eggsy immediately thinks of something else. “Regent’s Park? I don’t know--God, why am I stressing out over rich people problems, this ain’t right.”

“A little bit longer, Eggsy, we’re almost finished. Just a few more things. Are there more you haven’t mentioned?”

“Like what?”

“You tell me.”

Jesus, Eggsy’s starting to get annoyed with this whole situation again. “I--” He huffs. “Suppose a balcony would be nice.”

“A balcony,” Harry repeats.

“Or a terrace, I don’t know the difference actually. Just something to look out of.”

“...You mean a window,” Harry deadpans.

“No, oh my god, don’t be cute with me--Somewhere you can look out of and, you know, relax by, probably.”

“Likely best if you don’t call men three times your age ‘cute’, no matter the colloquism,” Harry mutters under his breath as he writes on his notebook.

“Well, too bad,” Eggsy retorts, mildly offended. “It ain’t like I’m lying.”

“ _Balcony_ \--What else?”

Despite how annoying Eggsy’s found this mysterious ‘boy’ to be, they’ve been talking about him for a while now and he kinda feels the need to look out for him a bit. “Okay, so like...it’s probably good if the bedrooms don’t share a wall, or even a...floor-ceiling area. You know what I mean?”

“What.”

“Just think about it! What if this bloke and his dad share the same wall, right, and he or his dad is having a shag, then they’ll hear it, hear each other, and it’ll be gross. Just--do it, Harry,” Eggsy insists, trying not to think how it would be if he was in that situation. God, and this whole ‘thing’ with his mum and Harry. Like, what if it was more _serious_ and Eggsy shared a wall with her bedroom or something? Gross. Eggsy would run away and steal a car just to crash it so he could get amnesia.

Harry’s lips thin as he nods and writes that down. “I will most definitely keep that in mind.”

“Thanks--Okay, are we done now? Can we move on?” Eggsy questions, feet bouncing restlessly on the floor.

“Yes. Yes, we can.”

“Oh, thank god, I can’t believe it but I’m actually gagging for one of your lessons, Mr. Hart, I swear--” He slides over his handwriting journal to the centre at last. “If I hear another house hunting thing I’mma go back in my room and you ain’t gonna see me again for ten years.”

“Devastating.”

“Damn right,” Eggsy tells him, tapping his journal. “Come on, tell me if it’s shit.”

Harry sends him an admonishing look before looking through the notebook. Like...all of it. Eggsy even put a small gay-arse butterfly sticky note from the London Zoo as a bookmark on where Harry was _supposed_ to start, but he’s looking through _everything_. Jesus.

“ _‘Ethereal’_?”

“It’s...a fancy word I heard yesterday.”

“How so?”

“...I just heard it--Anyway, come on, tell me, is it a lost cause?”

“Not at all, I see some improvements already.” He slides them back to Eggsy. “I’d like to see you write, actually.”

“M’kay.”

It goes on like that for a few minutes in comfortable silence, and so _maybe_ Eggsy’s being shite on purpose. Just a little bit. A tiny bit.

“Eggsy.” Harry frowns. “Not--smaller than--here--” His hand reaches but stops halfway. “May I touch you?”

“Always,” Eggsy answers simply. At the beat of silence, he looks up, brows furrowed. Wiggling the pen inbetween his fingers, he reaches for Harry’s hand but stops a few inches away. Because Harry has to make that move, Eggsy isn’t gonna force him. “Go on. Show me how it’s done.”

Harry’s right hand eventually envelops his, guiding him in his writing. Eggsy has to do his best not to let on how _warm_ that fucking makes him feel.

 

\--

 

Perhaps this is what they call a ‘cheat’ day. Harry has no business touching him, much less allowing them to be in the same space in a prolonged period of time--But.

There’s a valid reason. Harry has promised to see the lessons through. And Harry will always do his best to keep his promises. There’s a purpose to all this, despite the torture of it all. This is for the sake of Eggsy’s continued education.

Harry still has his resolve, he intends to keep it. He will continue to keep his defences up.

Besides, he intends to get through almost everything in the lesson plan. The rest must be sacrificed for the sake of time and his sanity. Eggsy’s starting school in about two to three weeks anyway and Harry--

Harry has things to do as well.

“The next lesson is better suited downstairs,” He announces, starting to pack up the food.

“Hmm, yeah?” Eggsy challenges, a cheeky eyebrow raising in emphasis as he helps Harry with cleaning up. “You’re not just trying to get rid of me or anything?”

Staring at him for a moment, Harry doesn’t say that it’s difficult to succeed in such an endeavour. Harry doesn’t say that if he genuinely needed to, he must get rid of _himself_ to keep them apart.

“No,” He murmurs, averting his gaze. He’s looked at him far too many times today. “I’ll go ahead and make the preparations. I expect you downstairs within ten minutes.”

“Yes, sir.”

Harry briefly closes his eyes at that before moving on. Quietly unlocking one of his drawers to safely store the leather notebook containing Eggsy’s house preferences, he catches sight of a bulky device haphazardly left in the corner. He forgot about that.

“Eggsy,” Harry begins, gingerly offering it. “I’d like you to have it.”

Mouth agape, Eggsy stares, unmoving. “Wot--”

“It’s not new," Harry attempts to reassure him. "Clearly.”

“That’s a massive ancient [camera](http://i.imgur.com/bciZGEU.jpg) that I’m not gonna know how to use,” Eggsy blurts.

“It used to be mine.” Harry tries to hide his offence as he blindly palms over work-sensitive materials with his free hand to find an accompanying accessory. “It’s from the eighties. I’ve barely used it since then.” He used it once for a mission and kept it around for a while before he put it in one of his boxes in the locked storage for years. He recently just fished it out and reinstalled a new film cartridge for use. Ever since he saw Eggsy with that book on photography, this was a secondary option that came to mind. The first one was--“Unless, you’d like me to buy you the latest model offered today, of course, that’s always an option--”

Eggsy immediately takes the camera, determinedly keeping his eyes on it. “This a polaroid or something, innit?”

Finally finding the small pack of instant films, Harry hands them over as well. “Figured this would be a good start, what with your newfound interest in photography and all.”

“So you was a photographer?” Eggsy asks, eager and distracted with his eyes still on the camera.

“No,” Harry huffs softly, watching Eggsy turn the device over and over in his hands, watches the awe in his expression.

That’s when thought comes, involuntary: _I could be_.

He clears his throat instead. “I’m well aware that things are digital now, but it’s a nice sentiment to keep in mind that--” Harry regrets whatever idiotic sense he had in attempting to be sage in his words. Nevertheless, he finds himself trying again. “Every moment, every subject you capture, I gather you’ll be more selective, considering that you know there won’t be an infinite number of instant film you can peruse. You’ll be mindful of the fact that things _do_ run out, whether it be material or time. Therefore, you’ll be--” Harry shuts his mouth, feeling foolish and out of place.

He concentrates on locking his drawer instead. That’s when a quick flash and a grating noise follows.

Harry blinks, lacking comprehension. “Did I not just tell you to _not_ waste it?”

Eggsy actually looks rather abashed. “Who said I’m wasting it?” He mumbles in indignance, eyes determinedly on the camera. “God, that noise level isn’t low-key at all---To be fair, I didn’t think the battery still worked.”

“The battery is the film cartridge,” Harry informs him. “Every time you change it, it works again.”

“S’dark, I don’t see nothing,” Eggsy laments, looking down at the newly ejected photo. It’s odd how he genuinely sounds distressed at that in some level.

“It takes some time, Eggsy,” Harry assures him. He makes a decision to stand, making his way to the door. It’s either that or they’ll be here forever. “Next lesson in ten minutes.”

 

»

 

Downstairs, he goes through the hallway entryway to the dining room and the kitchen. After putting the food away properly, he exits through the main dining room entrance and goes straight for the bar.

It’s probably not a good idea to bring out the alcohol, but that’s why Harry has rules in place. Contingency plans.

He reaches under for the mini-fridge and takes out the cheese to start slicing them into pieces. He doesn't exactly know how long it's been when there’s a gasp that prompts him looks up from the bar counter. In the low light by the dining room entrance is Eggsy, seemingly in awe.

“Bloody hell, when did these curtains get put on? I almost thought I lost like seven hours of my life. Jesus, it’s practically nine in the evening with how dim it is in here!” Eggsy can’t seem to stop marveling.

“Would you like to turn on more lights?” Harry offers. After all, the only source of light is the standing lamp between the bar area and the living area.

“Nah,” Eggsy insists, a bit of wonder still in his expression. “I kinda like it--Lemme check the actual time, though.” He pulls out his mobile. “Damn. Four thirty-one. Amazing.”

Harry concentrates on slicing or he might stare, and he doesn’t exactly trust himself to keep track of the proper time anymore. He senses Eggsy making his way closer regardless, and he’s thankful for the bar counter between them. He can feel the barely contained excitement coming off him in waves and it’s absolutely preposterous.

“So…” Eggsy begins, tone deceptively calm. “Wine and Cheese module?”

“Yes.”

“Fucking ace!” Eggsy rejoices.

“There are rules--”

“Of course there are--Come on, lay them on me.” Eggsy leans down, propping his chin with his crossed arms on the bar counter, watching as Harry moves on to slice some bread.

“You’ll have to wait a bit until I’m finished with preparations.”

“M’kay,” Eggsy says it so simply, like he could watch Harry and be content with waiting for an indiscernible amount of time. Harry hates it. Almost as much as he hates the way he had said _‘Always’_ earlier in the office.

 _‘Always’_ as if it was proper for Harry to touch him, like it was a given, the way humans need air to survive.

Despicable.

Ruinous.

But Harry is and foremost a gentleman.

“Eggsy…”

“Hmm?”

“It seems to have escaped me. What were your questions earlier? You did very well in answering mine and helping me with the real estate matter.”

“No problem. It was an experience, I suppose,” Eggsy huffs. “How was your day?”

Harry finds himself slowing to a stop. “Pardon?”

“I said,” Eggsy says slowly, looking up and tilting his head, revealing the side of his neck. “How was your day?”

Harry’s eyes are fixated on the mole off-centre on Eggsy’s throat. And when he attempts to look away, the effort is derailed by a loose group of freckles on the lower left side of his face, near the jawline.

Blinking, Harry finds himself vaguely nauseated by a sense of something like nostalgia. “It was fine.”

Eggsy frowns. “You’re tired.”

 _I’m always tired,_ Harry doesn’t say, _But never of you._

_I want to be tired of you._

“It comes with the long hours on the job. I’m used to it.”

There is a certain displeasure in the way Eggsy purses his lips. “Do you want me to leave? Tell me. This once, I’ll leave. I want you to rest.”

Harry’s mind goes blank for a moment, but he recovers. “You say that now when I’m almost finished.” All Harry has to do is pour the wines in their glass. He makes a point to barely fill them halfway. “The point of this lesson is to differentiate the taste and the characteristics between them, to gain the ability to know which pairs well with what.”

Eggsy nods along but Harry doesn’t really think he understands.

“ _Taste_ , Eggsy, not consume. I need you to fully understand,” Harry says, waiting and expectant.

“...Okay?” Eggsy tells him, a slight confusion on his face. “Can we move over to one of the sofas, though? This ain’t comfortable. I want you comfortable.”

“I’m comfortable,” Harry disagrees politely.

“Well, you’re a bit of a liar, and I know ‘cos I ain’t comfortable if you’re not comfortable. And I ain’t comfortable right now. So, one of them sofas it is.”

Resigned, Harry unscrews the cocktail shaker and hands the long container over. “Carry this over there, I’ll take the tray.”

After setting the tray on the coffee table, Harry makes the decision to sit on the armchair settled nearly in the corner of the room by the windows. On the other side of the coffee table, Eggsy blinks from the sofa he’s sitting on, the shaker in his hand.

“You know what you remind me of?” Eggsy prompts. “You know those kids that are scared of cooties or somewhat? That’s you.”

Harry huffs. “Shall we begin?”

 

\--

 

“Eggsy, I’ll have to warn you again,” Harry starts, and Eggsy waves it off.

“Yeah, yeah, _‘be careful’_ , I know, geez. I’ve drank before, Harry. I had pints and stuff and I was fine, so--”

“Beer is not _wine_ , Eggsy,” Harry stresses. “Different types of alcohol have different effects on people.”

“You seem to know so much about alcohol--Are you an alcoholic?” Eggsy tries to distract him, lifting up a fancy glass and sniffing. ‘Cos apparently that’s what he’s supposed to do.

“No, Eggsy. And do try to be more subtle when you try taking in the scent.”

Eggsy puts the glass back down and reaches for it again, exaggerating in his dainty sniffing of the glass. “Happy?”

He takes a sip, but Harry can’t seem to help but lecture. “Remember, _taste_ , not drink. Only a sip, Eggsy.”

“Mhm,” Eggsy manages, trying to not make a face at the taste. How can something liquid be so _dry?_ Bloody fuck.

“Swish it around your mouth. Taste it. Memorise it.”

Eggsy really does make a face when he gives up and swallows it. He’d rather not taste it any longer than he should. “What cheese goes with that again?”

Harry sighs. “First of all, you were supposed to spit it out in that--” He gestures to the open cocktail shaker. “--And here--” He pushes the plate of multiple varied cheese slices and bread. “Have a smell, what do you think?”

“I think this is too much work.”

“It’s a lesson. If it wasn’t overbearing, it would simply be you drinking in the afternoon like a budding alcoholic.”

Eggsy shoots him a look, suspecting Harry’s remembering that time after Yvonne’s party. “That was one time. Besides, have you ever heard of ‘peer pressure’? It’s real, okay? Apparently drinking is cool.”

Harry’s lips thin. “I’d lecture against it, but I sense you’d accuse me of being a hypocrite. After all, I have a bar full of scotch and whiskies and no one to drink it with.” He gives a quick close-mouthed smile, barely there and already gone.

It takes Eggsy a moment to realise that the words are familiar, but he doesn’t quite remember from when or where exactly. “Is this you admitting to being an alcoholic?”

“No.”

Eggsy pokes a piece of cheese with one of the toothpicks and sniffs at it. “So is this you _not_ lecturing me against it and _sort of_ allowing me to--”

“I don’t allow you anything. You’re a person of your mind and thoughts and choices. You may let people and their opinions guide you, but it is ultimately your choice.”

At that, Eggsy finds himself taking another tentative sip, looking at Harry. After a few moments of tasting the rancid thing, Eggsy brings up the shaker and angles it so he can covertly spit in it. It’s really embarrassing for some reason and he hopes that he’s wrong about sensing Harry still looking at him. Self-conscious, he wipes at his mouth.

“The napkins are on the tray, Eggsy.”

“Right, thanks.”

“Water as well.”

“Yeah--Wait, am I just supposed to know what cheese goes with what wine just by smelling it?”

“Scent, texture, taste, and _after_ taste,” Harry informs him.

“Bloody hell,” Eggsy mutters, chomping on cheese and following with a piece of bread. “This one ain’t _too_ bad.”

“Gruyère, it goes with the Pinot noir--Two glasses away from the one you just drank.”

Eggsy takes a sip of that and slightly cringes. “Yeah, okay. I _think_ I can see why they pair, but do I have to keep going? Can’t I just take your word for it? For everything?”

“I can’t always be here,” Harry murmurs. “That is why you must learn things for yourself.”

Eggsy frowns, uncomfortable by the idea. Like, yeah, he can _learn_ things, no problem about that. He knows he doesn’t _need_ anybody, he can figure things out on his own, but it’d be _nice_ to have Harry around.

For the rest of his life, maybe.

“Man,” Eggsy huffs softly, “You’re really serious about the Oxbridge thing aren’t you?” He questions him, genuinely curious.

“Of course I am.”

Quietly taking in the scent of another wine, Eggsy peers over the glass to watch him for a moment.

“Serious conversation, yeah?”

Harry nods. “Mmm.”

“Why?”

“Why, what?”

“Why do you think _I’m_ capable of going to Oxbridge? Out of _all_ the people who are gonna be trying to get in--from all over the _world_ , by the way.”

Harry tilts his head slightly, clearly careful with his words. “I believe...that you are capable of _anything_ you _want_ to do. If you genuinely want it, then you _will_ find a way.”

Eggsy waits for more but there isn’t. When the words sink in entirely, Eggsy lets himself consider it. The reality that Harry believes in, it’s almost...scary. Because if Eggsy can do anything he wants, then _anything_ is possible.

And see, not all the things Eggsy thinks about are _good_.

Biting at his lip, he can’t quite leave it alone. “This whole ‘gentleman’ lessons thing, what’s the point of it all? I mean, yeah, I’ll fit in. But that’s if no one asks questions. Everyone _always_ asks questions. That’s me fucked then, innit? They’re gonna know, Harry. I’m not a posh kid born out of old money. I’m just a pleb. I ain’t a gentleman.”

“Being a gentleman has nothing to do with the circumstances of one's birth," says Harry, "Being a gentleman is something one learns.”

Eggsy wants to believe that, but he doesn’t think other people will. But with the way Harry looks, he genuinely seems to believe it. And maybe--maybe that’s enough.

“Okay,” Eggsy breathes. “How?”

“I’ve been teaching you.”

“Yeah, but--” He nibbles on another cheese and sips at another wine. “Am I any good at it? How am I doing?”

For a moment, all Harry seems to do is look at him, thumb absently brushing at his left wrist. Suddenly, he stops, blinking, setting his hands on the armrests and cutting his gaze away. “I’m afraid I don’t count.”

“...What.”

“If _I_ were to be asked, it would be a biased answer--In the same way I would...hope you actually are.”

“What.” Eggsy asks again, toneless. Why does he always talk in circles? Why can’t he just say what he actually means?

“You...like it here, yes?” Harry ventures. “Comfortable?”

“Yeah? I mean, I’m here, ain’t I? I’ve _been_ here for...” Eggsy trails off, mind somehow muddled and incapable of figuring out just how often he’s been at Harry’s house, for how _long_. He shrugs instead. “Yeah.”

“Therefore, in a way, your behaviour is biased. You wouldn’t _ask_ to sit on a chair before you do so, you wouldn’t ask permission to do this or that--”

“Oh, wait--” Eggsy’s brows furrow. “Do you want me to?”

“ _No_ , that’s the point,” says Harry, sighing. “I can trust you most of the time to treat this house well and not do anything too outrageous like invite an outsider or throw parties. I don’t need you to ask permission for such simple things, not the way you would at someone _else’s_ home. You’ve been here quite often enough that I trust you to clean up your own mess, to do whatever you’d like because you’ve considered the consequences and made your choice, I _trust_ you to _think_.”

“Well, _yeah_ ,” Eggsy emphasises, a bit offended despite all the good implications of what Harry has said, because--“ _Of course_ I wouldn’t invite anybody here, much less throw a _party_ \--Nevermind the fact that you probably like it quiet in general, you get home from work _tired_ , I’d want you to sleep. Inviting other people here wouldn’t be right because other people don’t _belong_ here. We--”

Jesus fucking christ, that shit was so close to pure humiliation.

Grabbing another glass of wine, he takes a bigger sip this time.

“That’s a Riesling,” Harry automatically informs him, “It goes well with the Gouda or the Raclette--Remember to spit, Eggsy.”

Eggsy makes a face in complaint and pointedly spits in the shaker. It’s gross. It’s not that he can’t spit properly, it’s just that it leaves his lips really wet and he has to lick it just to make sure he’s not drooling or anything. It probably looks weird to anyone watching so he’s not gonna meet Harry’s eyes for like thirty seconds until he gets over it. He stares hard at the cheese plate instead. “How do I know what’s a Gouda? Or a Rackle--Racklett?”

There’s a beat of silence before Harry stands, moving to the far sofa nearly perpendicular to Eggsy’s. He takes two toothpicks, stares at the plate for three seconds, and spears two different cheeses before holding it out to Eggsy.

Eggsy squints in suspicion. “You know just by looking?”

Harry raises an eyebrow and Eggsy sweeps down to bite the cheese off.

“Eggsy,” Harry begins to chide, long-suffering, “You were supposed to take it from me and _then_ eat it.”

“Why would I do that?” He questions, petulant, taking a sip of the wine before sweeping down again for the other cheese.

Harry sighs.

Eggsy ignores it. “Hey, does that mean a lot of cheeses can pair with wines?”

“Yes. Riesling can also pair with fondue among other things.”

“Fondue?” Eggsy repeats, not entirely sure what it means. But it sounds nice as hell. “I want a fondue. You should give me a fondue.”

“Pity, that--Can’t get everything we want, can we?”

Eggsy scrunches his nose. “With all these pairs, what’s the point? I’m not gonna memorise them all, I--Am I _supposed_ to learn them all?”

“...It’s not mandatory, Eggsy,” Harry assures him. “This is a beginner’s lesson on the wine and cheese pairings.”

“Christ, if the beginner’s lesson is _this_ confusing, what the hell are the next level ones?”

“There are other things that pair with wine in addition to cheese. Those would be meats, fruits, nuts, spices, herbs, sweets…”

Eggsy gapes. “Meat? Are you telling me we coulda been eating real food right now? And sweets? Like, what, desserts?”

“...Eggsy, we just ate in the office.”

“Okay, true, but--Why do I have to know them though? Other than to impress people and blend in? Like, is there a _purpose_?”

Harry looks at him oddly. “...'Purpose'?”

“Like...is that--you know, would you be--” Eggsy clears his throat. “Is someone bound to come up to you and me all ‘ _seduce me with your wine and cheese pairing knowledge_ ’? Is that--Is that a thing?” Eggsy starts to turn sideways in his seat towards Harry, resting an elbow on the armrest to prop his chin up with a hand as he scrutinises him. “Is that gonna get me somewhere? Or have you--Have you ever gotten lucky with that?”

After a few rounds of blinking, Harry opens his mouth. “That’s--No, but I--You ask many questions, which one am I supposed to answer?”

“All of them,” Eggsy simply demands.

Severely unamused, Harry purses his lips. “Seduction is not the point here, Eggsy.”

“Okay, but would that…” Eggsy shrugs, sipping a bit of wine. “You know, work on you?”

“...If someone...came up to me and told me all the wine and food pairs?” Harry checks, tone blank.

“Yeah.”

“No.”

Eggsy can’t stop the way his shoulders slump in time and he moves to drink again, but Harry takes the glass from him and finishes it off in little sips.

“Though I--” Harry stops and grinds his teeth. “I’m sure it’s bound to work on _someone_. I wouldn’t put it past you to make it happen.”

Amazing. Back with the awkwardly inspiring father-figure bullshit.

But hey, Eggsy will take it.

“So how _do_ you seduce someone?” Eggsy asks him, reaching for another glass.

Harry stabs a piece of cheese and holds it out for him. “It’s a matter of _who_ you’re seducing.”

“Mmm,” Eggsy hums, nodding. “Am I...gonna get a lesson on that, Mr. Hart?” He leans down slightly to take the cheese into his mouth.

“Absolutely not--That’s a Feta cheese, it’ll pair with the Sauvignon Blanc you’ve just taken a sip out of, even the Riesling, actually.”

Eggsy doesn’t even purse his lips, he just plain _pouts_ in genuine disappointment and takes another sip, sneaking a large swallow this time out of spite before pretending to spit. “Shouldn’t that be a part of the curriculum? S’important, innit? For the future?”

“You’ll be fine in that department,” Harry mutters, setting the empty wine glass on the coffee table.

“But--It ain’t like I can just _‘Bond, James Bond’_ myself into that situation. Don’t forget my name’s Eggsy _Unwin_. What part of that is seductive?”

Harry only stares for a moment before grumbles, “The franchise--right.”

Eggsy blinks. “What, d’you know someone named James Bond?” He can’t help but laugh at that until he suddenly remembers--“Oh! You know my mate from Wetherby? Quinlan--” Eggsy laughs again bordering on hysterical. “ _He_ knows a James Bond! Or so he told me once.”

“...Did he, now?”

“Yeah--It’s--Oh my god, okay, so like...a year back or somewhat, after he ran away and got sent to Scotland for punishment by his da or something,” Eggsy begins, eager, “He was in this boarding school, right? For rich posh kids. And he was really busy a lot, but then _one time_ he called me,”  Eggsy pauses for dramatic effect. Because it _was_ dramatic. It was very odd, because Quinlan only used to call every other week if not longer.

“...So I even thought it was an emergency of some sort but he went, _‘I can’t believe this--You are_ not _going to believe this’_ in that muttering way that he does, and I was like ‘ _What?_ ’” He enthusiastically rambles, “And he was like ‘ _Guess what the new supply teacher is called?’_ and I was like _‘What?’_ and he was like... _‘James Bond’_ ,” Eggsy reveals dramatically, hoping his own excitement is catching because it feels like it’s been a while since he’s seen Harry smile.

“...And I laughed and laughed ‘cos I thought he was taking the piss, right? And so I kept teasing him about it, I was like ‘ _Did he introduce himself like_ ‘Bond, James Bond’ _? Ask him if that’s how his chat-up lines start’_ and I just kept laughing but then he hung up on me.” Eggsy suddenly frowns, a bit breathless from talking. “Huh. That was weird--There has to be people named James Bond in real life, innit?”

Harry keeps staring at him oddly. “Yes. I’m afraid so--I’m going to need you to drink more water, Eggsy.”

He tries not to let his disappointment show. “Huh? Why?”

“A countermeasure.”

It takes a while for him to understand. When he does, he snorts. “Oi! You think I’m drunk?” Like, yeah, he snuck a few swallows every other drink, but it’s hardly _enough_. He isn’t _drunk_. Plus, it’s only been like ten minutes since he took his first sip. “Is it ‘cos I’m rambling? Do you think I’m a rambling drunk? ‘Cos apparently when people get drunk, they either get depressed, rambly, super happy, arsehol-ish, angry, touchy-feely, or horny--Which one are you, Harry?”

Harry’s expression is eerily unchanged. “I wouldn’t know. I don’t make a habit of being drunk to begin with.”

Eggsy squints in suspicion. God, he wishes Harry was either a touchy-feely drunk or a horny drunk, but that would be too easy, wouldn’t it? He’s never that lucky.

“Is this you being _embarrassed_?” Eggsy eventually fails in hiding a smile as he goads him, because Harry just seems so secretive about it. He’s gotta be keeping that information low-key ‘cos he’s embarrassed. Which one could it be? The sudden thought of a drunk and ecstatic Harry gives him life. _Yeah_ , he’ll definitely settle for a super happy Harry. Eggsy crows at the idea. “Aww, Haz, c’mon, I won’t tell. I can keep a secret, me, honest.”

Lips pressed tight, Harry goes on to insist, “I’m telling the truth. Now, please, drink more water.”

“Okay, but maybe it’s best to find out now,” Eggsy suggests eagerly. “No one else is here but me--You’re safe with me, Harry,” Eggsy professes, earnest. “What happens at home _stays_ at home.”

“No, Eggsy,” Harry says, firm, reaching for the jug of water on the table and pouring a glass before handing it to him.

“But--”

“Moving on to the real reason why we are here-- _lessons_ \--” Harry emphasises, stabbing a cheese with a toothpick and holding it out for him. “Asiago cheese, for the next glass in line: Prosecco--After you drink water, of course.”

Despite the genuine disappointment, Eggsy humours him anyway. “ _Of course_. Sure. Whatever you say, daddy.”

“Don’t--” Harry stops and sighs. “Very well.”

“You shouldn’t look so miserable. It’s not a bad thing, trust me,” Eggsy insists. Honestly, when will he get it? Eggsy’s almost tempted to tell him, but god, that’ll just ruin everything. It’s not the right time.

“Do you think that doing alcohol is ‘cool’?” Harry suddenly asks. At Eggsy’s suspicious look, Harry shrugs lightly. “You call me your father, I’ll be expressing fatherly concern.”

“Bullshit,” Eggsy huffs. “One of these days, I swear, you’ll figure it out and--” He shakes his head, because he doesn’t even know. What if Harry will be disgusted?

See? That’s why he has to ease him into it.

All in due time.

“And…?” Harry prompts. “Figure out what, exactly?”

Eggsy waves it off, scoffing and answering the question instead, “Do I think alcohol is ‘ _cool’_? As a teenager, I’m practically obligated to say yes.”

“That’s what you _think_ you should say, but I’m asking _you_ , not the version of you that breaks under societal pressure. You don’t need to do that with me.”

At Harry’s patient expression, Eggsy finds himself stupidly honest. “I don’t like it. I mean--as I said, when I’m angry or bored, yeah, I drink. And it _does_ look cool, which is dumb, but that’s a society thing even though we all know how shite it is for us--” He stops rambling and sighs.

From nowhere, he ends up bursting out, ”Dean drank.”

Harry raises his head slightly, almost as if he’s halfway up to a nod. The atmosphere feels different all of a sudden and his voice is clear and quiet. “What did he do?”

Eggsy can’t help the slightly nervous chuckle. “Nothing. Just--made me uncomfortable.”

“Eggsy…”

“Okay, so he threatened me a _little_ bit every now and then. More than the usual. Depends on _how_ much he drank, or if my mum was home. But--” Eggsy stops, picking up another wine glass. “--There was this look in his eyes...I don’t know.” He laughs again, shrugging. He drinks, swishing it around his mouth and sneaking in a bit of swallow before he spits it in the shaker. “I might’ve been imagining it. Maybe it’s an over-defensive thing, y’know. But I tried to stay away as often as I could. But then I was worried about my mum, so I didn’t most of the time. Just in case.”

“...It’s called instinct.”

“I like this wine,” Eggsy suddenly blurts out, “It’s like Ribena but much, _much_ better. It’s sweet, Harry, I like it.”

“I figured you would,” Harry murmurs quietly, looking away. Eggsy steals another sip and swallow before Harry turns back to him with a suggestion. “Have you thought about _pretending_ to drink?”

“Huh?”

“When you’re in front of your peers,” Harry clarifies.

Eggsy swishes his mouth with water before going for the next glass. “...How do you ‘pretend’ to drink?”

“A bottle of beer has a tint of colouring more often than not--The glass--Most commonly it’s green, sometimes it’s brown.”

“And?”

“Pour the alcohol out. Fill it with water. Drink.”

It’s pure silence for a few seconds.

“...Shit,” Eggsy whispers softly. “Harry, you fucking _ledge_.”

“Pardon?”

“Oh my god,” Eggsy shakes his head in absolute disbelief and elation, picking up another glass of wine, “You’re so fucking brill!”

“...I don’t think it’s an original concept, but you’re welcome--I do hope you remember that method when you go to university.”

Somehow, Eggsy’s brain is too slow to catch up. “What method?”

Harry raises an eyebrow. “The one we just talked about. Drinking beer?”

“Psh. Yeah, okay. University--I mean, no offence,” Eggsy huffs, chomping on another piece of cheese and cringing. “Okay, what the _hell_ is this?”

“That’s a Blue Stilton and it goes well with a vintage Port.”

Fuck, it doesn’t stop being _nasty_ , it only gets worse the more he chews--Even when it’s gone and consumed, it’s still fucking gross and--Eggsy grabs one of the wines he’s already taken a sip out of and downs it in one go, trying to get rid of the taste and the _feel_ of it. He doesn’t even fucking care if the wine’s bitter as fuck, he’s just desperate.

“Eggsy,” Harry immediately admonishes, sitting up.

“It was gross, okay? You don’t understand. That was _rank_ \--you shoulda warned me, babe, Jesus fucking Christ.” Eggsy tries to calm down, breathing in and out of his mouth.

Harry stares at him for a moment before averting his gaze. “I think that’s enough for today.”

“Wha--but we’ve barely even started, there’s like...half a dozen to go.”

“I genuinely suspect you’re more susceptible to wine than the average person--It’s also about how _fast_ you drink it as well. Considering you’ve just drank almost half a glass of wine in a mere few seconds, it would be wise to stop.”

Eggsy scoffs. “Oi! I ain’t drunk!”

So he feels just a little bit warm and flushed, so what? That’s what alcohol does, doesn’t it? It warms the body.

But Harry keeps looking at him strangely in silence.

“Oi, c’mon, I ain’t drunk! Swear down,” Eggsy tells him, working to keep his calm and appear very, _very_ reasonable. Because he isn’t drunk. He would know. Wouldn’t he? “Here, I’mma drink a bunch of water.” He does just that. “See? Let’s move on. Teach me stuff, Mr. Hart.”

Cautiously watching him, Harry reaches for the empty glass and brings it up close to his face. Harry curses under his breath. “Shit. It’s the Amarone.”

“Wazzat? And how do you know just by smelling? How do you know so much?”

Putting the glass back down, Harry still has his suspicious gaze set on Eggsy. “How do you feel at the moment?”

Eggsy shrugs. “I’m fine, honest. I’m a good boy.” He pauses, blinking.

What.

“...I don’t doubt that, Eggsy. If I can just--” He leans forward towards the coffee table, hooking the tip of his finger over the edge of the tray and pulling it over to the far side. “Why don’t we take a little break and talk for a while--Didn’t you have more questions? I believe we’ve only gotten to one, or was that the only--”

“Oh, yeah!” Eggsy exclaims at the sudden memory. “Who’s your boss?”

Harry blinks. “Pardon?”

Eggsy raises his chin, slightly narrowing his eyes. “ _Who_?”

“...Why?”

“‘Cos.”

That’s all Eggsy says, and Harry squints. It feels like a showdown of some sort.

“Who is he?” Eggsy repeats, hoping he sounds casual. “Where does he live?”

“...Why?”

“Cos he works you too hard.”

Harry’s brows furrow. “My job is always--”

“No. I don’t care.” Eggsy shakes his head. “I’mma find him. I’mma give him a talk. Is he an arsehole? He’s an arsehole, ain’t he?”

“Eggsy--It’s none of your business, I’m afraid.”

That’s _so_ offensive and a little bit heartbreaking but--"Bullshit. If you get home _this_ tired and he’s _still_ lining up work for you to do, he’s an arsehole. And I’mma take him down--One of these days.” Eggsy points a finger. “Just watch.”

 _I’mma kill him_ , Eggsy thinks, and he’s surprised by how much he might just mean it. _If I see him and he really is the arsehole that I think he is, I’mma--_

Harry sighs. “I’m afraid you _are_ drunk indeed.”

Eggsy rolls his eyes, pointedly drinking more water. “I’m fine. I’m just being honest. Maybe you should take a holiday.”

“I’ve already had two weeks of medical leave. And then some.”

Scrunching his nose, Eggsy shakes his head. “But is that enough? I mean--Do you like your job? Are you...happy?”

 _Quit it,_ Eggsy manages to hold back. _Quit it and stay at home with me._

See, if he _was_ drunk, would he have been able to _not_ say it? Because he realises it’s something he’s been thinking about for a while.

Lips thin, Harry takes a deep breath through his nose, and Eggsy only notices because his chest rises and falls with it. “My life always revolves around my work.”

“Revolved.”

“What?”

“Revolve _d_ , that’s what you said. Past tense. I remember, I asked you before,” Eggsy counters, quick, sharp and quiet. His eyes focus on the way Harry’s jaw clenches in the low light.

Eggsy doesn’t really know why he feels so strongly about this, and yeah, he technically doesn’t have the right to boss Harry around--Harry’s an adult three times his age. But _god_ , Eggsy fucking hates his job and he’s never been more fired up like he is now.

Before he can say anything though, Harry stands. Eggsy worries he might’ve pushed him too much and he makes to follow him but Harry slightly raises his hand and orders, “Stay.”

Eggsy automatically sits back down, confused at how... _thoughtlessly_ he followed that order. He squints at the coffee table, mulling it over. He ends up reaching for that sweet wine he drank before, taking a sip before returning it. If he had his way, he’d drink it all, but Harry will _definitely_ notice.

That’s some good shit.

When he hears Harry coming back, Eggsy makes sure he’s already looking slightly chastised in his seat, gaze down, hands on his lap. He’s honestly relieved that Harry chose to sit back on the other sofa close by instead of the armchair. That shit’s far.

“Eggsy,” Harry calls softly and Eggsy looks up to frown at the sizeable paper-wrapped box he’s holding on his lap.

“Wazzat?”

Even though Harry opens his mouth to answer, he doesn’t say anything. He hands it over instead.

Gingerly taking it, it’s heavier than he thought it would be and Eggsy keeps looking back at Harry, trying to get an idea what the bloody hell to do. “Should I…?”

“If you'd like.”

Eggsy doesn’t know why it feels so serious and important, but it is, and he takes it slow when he unwraps the brown paper.

Even as the item becomes revealed, Eggsy can’t really believe it.

The box is big. Through the clear section of the [packaging](http://i.imgur.com/2D0RRUy.jpg), honey whisky looks fucking _gold_ under this dim warm lighting. It’s surrounded by two shot glasses with an official logo on it and everything.

The actual bottle’s bloody bigger than he thought it would be too. God.

“S’fucking massive,” Eggsy can’t help but say.

Harry presses his lips together. “Yes, I couldn’t find a smaller one in a gift set during that particular time. I expect you to _not_ finish it in one go.”

Eggsy swallows, helplessly looking back down at the box. It’s stupid to get...overwhelmed by it, but fucking hell.

“It ain’t even my birthday yet,” He huffs, somehow apprehensive. Maybe it’s the prickling tingles on his skin. It’s weird. “You didn’t have to give it right away.”

The silence is thick, and Eggsy inexplicably feels the beginnings of a sickening sensation in his stomach as he waits for an answer.

“I suppose that’s the matter at hand, Eggsy,” Harry begins, quiet. “As I’ve said, my life revolve _s_ around my work. I might not be able to be there for your birthday.”

Maybe it’s the multiple types of wine he snuck a few swallows on, but Eggsy’s world _flickers_ for a moment.

“...Huh.”

“...Eggsy?”

“Yeah.”

“...’Yeah’?” Harry cautions.

“ _Yeah_.” Eggsy manages to force himself to perk up all of a sudden, hands roving over the box. “Let’s have a go then.”

Harry stares at him, protesting with something like affront, “You’re not even sixteen yet.”

“Yeah, well, you’ve _just_ said you won’t be there,” Eggsy argues calmly as he opens the box and takes the items out to place them on the table.

“Eggsy,” Harry asserts, “I said I _might_ not be there.”

 _Liar_ , Eggsy wants to seethe. Which doesn’t really make sense, that _is_ what Harry said. But deep down he feels the need to curse at him and demand things that are probably unreasonable.

Things like ‘ _Why don’t you take the day off?_ ’, things like ‘ _Fucking quit your job_ ’.

Technically, there’s two or so weeks before his birthday. Harry should be able to do a request or some sort, shouldn’t he? Granted, Eggsy doesn't know what kind of place he works for or what the rules are, but isn’t it a general thing to be able to do that with enough time?

Instead of asking and demanding all that, Eggsy smiles a close-mouthed smile. “Let’s do it anyway--just in case. It wouldn’t be _fair_ , would it? If you’re not there--” He quickly attempts to open the bottle, but there’s a plastic thing around the cap and he’s having a bit of trouble getting rid of it than he should be.

“Eggsy--”

Eggsy digs his nails in, scratching the plastic off the cap. He immediately fills up the shot glasses before Harry can protest any further.

“Don’t worry, I won’t tell anybody.” He hands Harry his share with another smile. “I’m a good boy, Harry, you better trust.” Eggsy holds his own glass up, habitually sniffing and--he manages not to gag in reaction.

It’s alcohol, alright.

And it fucking smells like the alcohol from the _medical_ kit. That’s how fucking strong it is.

Bloody hell.

Eggsy stalls, swishing the liquor in his glass in slow circles. He can feel Harry watching him.

Fuck it.

“Hey,” Eggsy begins, “Since you’re not teaching me how to seduce people--a pity, that--why don’t you teach me something more on the theoretical side?”

“Like what?”

“Hmm,” Eggsy stalls again, thinking, “Well, seduction is a no-go, unfortunately…” He trails off, genuinely discouraged. He can’t help blurt out in complaint, “Are you sure you don’t wanna teach me how to bang proper?”

Harry looks vaguely nauseous. “To… _'bang'_ proper,” He repeats. “No.”

Eggsy rolls his eyes, huffing and teasing, “Or do you call it something really, really _lame_ like ‘making love’?”

Harry’s expression remains flat and severely unamused. He’s only holding the glass too. He doesn’t look like he has any intention of drinking it. Eggsy starts to feel guilty that he’s offended him or something, but Harry speaks, firm and clear. “...It doesn’t matter what I call it. The answer is no. In many different variations of the word and sentiment: No.”

“Okay, but what about other seduction- _related_ stuff?”

“No.”

“Why?” Eggsy questions, a bit of petulance seeping through. “You keep playing daddy anyway. You might as well teach me some things.” He feels the manipulative side taking over. “Besides, I only have a mum, after all.” There’s a split-second of silence and Eggsy manages not to cringe, moving on, “You gotta help me. It’s either you or---Lestrade.”

Harry looks away. “What do you wish to know?”

A little bit guilty, Eggsy feels like shit and he just bursts out, “Is it come or cum?”

Harry whips his head back, eyes slightly wide. Eggsy thinks there’s a bit of panic there. “Pardon?”

“Come with an ‘O’ or cum with a ‘U’?” Eggsy clarifies, hoping the flush isn’t too noticeable. It better not be. The bloody lamp’s like fifteen feet away next to the bar and against the wall. That shit better not be giving him away. “It’s cum with a ‘U’, innit?”

Harry blinks and blinks and blinks.

“It’s...whatever you prefer, Eggsy.”

Dissatisfied, Eggsy scowls. “Well, yeah, but what’s the proper term and the like? You’re good with that ‘proper’ shite.”

“The word as a verb or a noun?” Harry grinds out.

Huh. Eggsy didn’t even think about that. “...Is there really a difference?”

“It doesn’t matter. For the sake of propriety, it would be simply come with an ‘O’,” Harry intones. “Case closed. Let us move on--”

“Oi, wait, hang on!” Eggsy protests. “No, it ain’t!”

“You asked me what was _proper_ , it’s come with an ‘O’,” Harry repeats flatly.

“It ain’t!” Eggsy insists, and he doesn’t know if it’s because he’s being a little shit or if he genuinely believes it. He’s trolled on his mates’ computers before. That rated XXX shite has cum spelled with a ‘U’. “‘Cos come with an ‘O’ is already a word that people use often, innit? That would be _confusing_. Cum with a ‘U’ is just _filthier_. There’s a clear difference. It works.”

Harry’s eye twitches. “It’s--” He takes a calming breath. “Again, it’s whatever you prefer.”

Eggsy scrutinises him for a moment. And Harry actually does look calm.

But Eggsy can tell when he’s being _polite_.

Polite with a capital ‘P’ and a trademark slapped on the end.

Does Harry genuinely believe it’s come with an ‘O’?

Eggsy squints. “Look, if it’s come with an ‘O’, that’d be a bit weird, innit?”

Harry’s lips thin and he says nothing.

Huffing, Eggsy continues in his tirade. “It’d be like--” His eyes wander around the room as if that’ll help him find a better argument. “Look, if I say ‘come here’, it wouldn’t be dirty or nothin--” Eggsy falters. There’s a long beat of silence. “Okay, so it _could_ sound like…’come _here’_ , that I want you to...in a particular area--”

Death is such a good option right now, like, maybe if he drinks this shot of honey whisky he could get it over with. But maybe it just _smells_ terrible. There _is_ a hint of sweetness to it, it’s just overpowered by the sting of the alcohol. Maybe it’s just one of those ‘smells bad but tastes great’ things.

Either way, Eggsy’s amazed that he hasn’t hidden his own face with his hands despite the strong urge. As it is, Harry’s just staring down at the coffee table.

Eggsy frowns. “Okay. Alright.” He sighs, resigned. “It’s come with an ‘O’.”

In his peripherals, he can see Harry nod. “I’m...glad we’ve established that.”

Tapping his fingers against his shot glass in the stilted silence, something occurs to Eggsy. Unfortunately, he blurts it out. “Wait--What counts as losing your virginity?”

Maybe Harry was right about the wine thing. Eggsy’s so fucking warm his ears are _burning_.

“It’s a social construct, don’t worry about it--”

“Yeah, I know _that_ part--I’m a student of Roxy Morton’s worldly knowledge, just so you know--I meant...what _counts_?”

“Whatever you want to count,” Harry promptly replies.

“Stop giving me shitty answers,” Eggsy accuses. “Real-talk here.”

Harry rattles off a definition like he’s a fucking dictionary. “Sexual acts between two or more parties ending in orgasms.”

Eggsy pauses, eyes narrowing in suspicion. “Two or _more_? Is there a story there somewhere, Harry?”

Staring at the far wall, Harry holds his head high. “I’m simply being inclusive.”

Filing away that thread for later, Eggsy thinks about the subject at hand. He genuinely doesn’t know if he still counts as a virgin, because even though he’s made Alicia Longman come--"It doesn’t count if you don’t come, does it?”

“What.”

“I’m saying, if you make _someone_ come, but _you_ don’t come--”

Harry throws back the shot glass of honey whisky in a split second.

Eggsy gapes. “Oi...you okay?”

No joke, just smelling his own glass threatens to make his eyes water, so if Harry did it just like that…

Then maybe it ain’t so terrible after all.

“Sex is sex, Eggsy,” Harry finally says. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

“Well, yeah, but we’re talking about virginity here--if _they_ come, it counts for them, but if _you_ don’t--Then it doesn’t, does it?” Eggsy feels the stupid visceral need to argue.

Maybe because Eggsy doesn’t want it to count.

Because--It’s not Harry, is it?

“Eggsy, you ask these questions but you clearly have your mind made up already. What’s the point in asking?”

A bit chastised, Eggsy stares down his own shot glass. He’s been asking for honey whisky all this time, now that it’s finally here, _this_ fucking close, he’s not fucking drinking it. He’s _stalling_.

Fucking ridiculous.

He feels like a child.

Still, he perseveres. There are questions needing answers.

“But blokes, right, don’t they have like...two virginities to lose? Girls too, actually.” Despite the casual tone, Eggsy wants to die. His shame and regret could power the fucking sun at this point.

Harry reaches for the bottle of whisky and fills his shot glass. “Penalty for your terrifying questions. I’ll be selfishly consuming your birthday gift like a heathen if you choose to continue down this path.”

Eggsy raises his eyebrows at the way Harry throws it back. “...How does it taste?”

“It tastes fine.” Harry shrugs lightly.

Despite Eggsy’s instincts, he’s gaining a bit more courage to drink.

Later. He’ll do it later. For now…

“But virginity, though--”

Harry snaps. “Eggsy--”

“Okay, but what about _fingering_. Girls can come just from it, yeah, but can blokes--”

“For fuck’s sake--”

“Exactly! This is a serious question! I need to know! Like, there’s gotta be a reason why people let dicks into their arses, innit? It’s gotta feel good or else they won’t do it--” Eggsy argues, ‘cos he’s seen the porn stuff, and there’s a lot of fake moaning and it’s difficult to tell anymore what the truth is. Maybe they do it so the other person feels good and then they get off on their own with a hand on their cock but-- “Can people come untouched?”

With Harry face-palming, it’s difficult to see his expression. The silence is tense and it’s what probably makes Harry’s voice sound a bit hoarse when he finally speaks. “...Eggsy, you’re testing my patience.”

“Well, duh. Who else could stand me but you?” Eggsy waves him off. “And by coming untouched I meant without a hand on your cock, just by pure dickery--”

“ _Christ_ ,” Harry hisses, reaching to fill his shot glass. “What is wrong with you--”

“A lot of things, but who else can I go to? You have all these worldly experience,” Eggsy points out, trying not to sound bitter about it. He doesn’t like to think about the number of people that Harry’s fucked, but god, now he’s thinking about it and the annoyance is steadily rising higher. “You might as well tell me things so I don’t embarrass myself later--”

“And what in the world are you thinking of planning with your line of questioning?” Harry demands, but he immediately backtracks, “Don’t tell me. It’s none of my business--”

“Fuck you, of course it is, so just tell me--”

“Is this about the threesome you mentioned to your mother during dinner a few weeks ago?” Harry grinds out, and Eggsy’s distracted by the way his free hand curls into a fist against the armrest. “Because if Miss Jansen is forcing you into certain situations you aren’t comfortable with--”

“What?” Eggsy finally asks, confused. “What are you on about?”

“You’re straight, Eggsy,” Harry states firmly, “And if she--”

“Wait--Well, _yeah_ , but, I--”

“ _Exactly_ -”

“No, but-- _you_ \--”

Something buzzes and they both fall quiet.

It _keeps_ buzzing. Genuinely incensed, Eggsy starts to plan a dramatised monologue about how Harry should quit his job and throw his mobile in the Thames. Because they _were_ getting somewhere.

He’s honestly sick and fed up about--

Oh.

It’s Eggsy’s.

Absently palming his pocket, he pulls out his old Nokia and huffs at the lines of texts.

“Tsk. Yev, you slag,” Eggsy mutters fondly under his breath. It’s cute how she thinks them dirty messages get her anywhere. Well, it probably does with other people, but Eggsy has priorities.

He types a quick reply and shoves it back in his pocket.

He accidentally meets Harry’s gaze.

It’s rather intense and Eggsy feels like he’s just fucked up somehow. “I don’t mean ‘slag’ in a derogatory way, honest,” He quickly explains.

Harry slowly sips at the drink as he watches him.

Eggsy wants to fucking squirm. “What?”

For a moment, Harry opens his mouth before closing it again and starts over. “...Why are you using your old mobile when you have a perfectly updated one?”

“...What.”

“I’ve noticed it in your texts as well. I have your old numbers still stored, see. And you’ve contacted me often on all three, interchangeably.” Harry tilts his head. “That implies you’ve been using all of them. All at once. Even when you’re out and about--Not simply at home. Why is that?”

Eggsy doesn’t know if it’s guilt, but the dread of being nearly found out of some kind of wrongdoing is so fucking strong that he momentarily feels sober.

Which doesn’t make sense because he _is_. He was never drunk.

And this whole thing with Cavendish isn’t _wrong_.

Well, he kinda feels guilty towards the man because he seems innocent of Holmes’s accusations, but overall, Eggsy was doing it because he thought it was the right thing. He thought he was doing some good in the world for once. Part of that was just...keeping it away from everyone and resorting to safety measures like carrying two to four mobiles with him all at once.

Which is excessive now that he thinks about it, _yeah_.

Eggsy’s old Nokia from two thousand and one should probably be in retirement. Eggsy’s second Nokia was given to him by Harry and it also doubles as a music player. It just has a unique form-factor and everything. People who would see it wouldn’t think it’s a mobile. He just feels safer carrying it around. It’s dumb, but it is what it is. His third mobile is the black and gold Motorola that Harry also gave him. Eggsy should be using that one most of the time, but again, this weird _assignment_ of his just calls for extra security stuff.

The fourth one is from Cavendish. A green Sony Ericsson that Harry can never know about.

Eggsy doesn’t necessarily know _why_.

He just knows that it’s an absolute _no_. Of course, he could easily lie about it. But he’s not risking Harry finding out.

Not when he’s almost done. Eggsy just needs to plant the bug thingy at his house and it’s over.

With Harry staring at him, waiting for an answer--It’s just fucking daunting.

Because for all his repression and fucking obliviousness when it comes to Eggsy’s attempts and advances, Eggsy thinks he’s bloody smart.

Harry’s got that look, that quiet _unassuming_ laser focus, waiting to catch _something_ that doesn’t make sense.

 

°

 

“Eggsy,” Harry calmly prompts. It was a very simple question, Harry likes to think. What’s more interesting is Eggsy’s reaction, the way he’s just staring back. It reminds Harry of earlier in the office when that cursed handkerchief was put into question. There’s something very suspect about--

With no warning whatsoever, Eggsy suddenly throws back the shot of honey whisky that he’s been nursing for the past seven minutes, neck arching gloriously before he starts to choke.

“Eggsy,” Harry snaps, chiding, but Eggsy’s waving a hand at him as if it’s all fine even when he’s pressing the back of his other hand to his mouth like he’s trying not to gag.

And that’s exactly what he’s trying not to do.

Eggsy’s eyes are watering and blood is rushing to his ears. He coughs and coughs, hand reaching for the pitcher of water that was meant for the wine and cheese lessons.

“Bloody fucking hell,” Eggsy curses, accusing eyes turned to Harry. “What part of _this_ tastes ‘fine’?”

Harry’s brows furrow. “It _does_ taste fine. The flavour is not to my taste but--”

“Fuck,” He curses again. The aftertaste is still in his fucking mouth. It’s like--God, it’s the fucking _worst_. It’s like sugar but the _bastardised_ version of it--Goddamn, Eggsy can’t even _think_ straight. All he can think about is the sad fake arse candy that poor kids can only afford. It tastes like honey, yeah, but it’s _fake_ fucking honey and it stays in the mouth it won’t leave. “Fuck.”

Frowning, Harry brings up his empty shot glass to smell it. It’s certainly not to his taste, yes, and while close, it’s not _entirely_ horrendous.

With the way Eggsy trying to tamp down his squirming, Harry can’t help but suspect otherwise. “Would you like me to throw it down the drain?”

“No!” Eggsy waves him off again, trying to settle down. His mouth actually starts to get numb-- _fuck_. He rubs at it with the back of his hand. “S’my birthday gift. Let it live.”

“I can simply get you another--”

“Shut up. It’s mine now. No take-backs.” Eggsy rubs at his throat and Harry’s eyes are helplessly drawn to it. His gaze stays there even as Eggsy moves on to rub at his face, huffing. “Is it really not as fucking rank for you as it is for me?”

At Eggsy’s expectant look, Harry carefully answers in a way that he hopes doesn’t offend. “We do have different experiences and age between us. I’ve had worse, Eggsy.”

Eggsy scrunches his nose. “Alright, then.” He immediately reaches to refill his glass.

“Eggsy,” Harry snaps again before Eggsy can drink it.

“What? If you say it’s fine, then it’s _fine_ \--I just probably need to get used to it and it’ll get better.” Eggsy’s fucking determined to taste what the fuck Harry’s tasting. So he drinks again before Harry can stop him, and he fights with himself to keep the liquid in his mouth for at least a second longer, but god it’s so fucking _disgusting_ that Eggsy’s eyes genuinely water and he wants to cry.

He swallows to get rid of the taste. His regret burns to a thousand suns, especially as Harry scolds him, taking the bottle and moving it far away on the table.

“For fuck’s sake, Eggsy,” Harry reprimands sharply. “If you simply wanted to taste, then do so and spit it _out_.”

“Fuck you,” Eggsy manages, voice hoarse. “If a bloke wants to fucking swallow, you gotta let him fucking swallow.” He doesn’t care that Harry goes still, Eggsy only grabs a handful of cheese and bread and shoves it in his mouth. “Fucking rank, it’s like one of them cheap arse poor people brand syrup medicine I had when I was down with the flu as a child. _Fuck_.” Eggsy curses, genuinely upset.

His dreams have been dashed, his expectations _crushed_ through two swallows alone. He thought honey whisky was supposed to taste good. What the hell is this shite? Is there something wrong with him? Because if Harry says it tastes alright, then why doesn’t Eggsy taste _that_?

In a swift move, he abruptly stands and attempts to go for the bottle.

Just as quick, Harry simply puts an arm out to block him and _pushes_ , propelling him back in his seat. “No.”

“Christ, you’re _strong_ ,” Eggsy tries to complain, but he only sounds like he’s marveling in awe and it’s embarrassing. “I just wanna taste.”

“You already did,” Harry tells him. This is getting out of hand, he needs to rectify this situation immediately. “It’s done. _We’re_ done. It’s time to clean up, I have things to do for work and you need to either sleep the liquor off or you need to go back to your mother’s flat.”

Eggsy goes still at that. The icy core starting to form at the pit of his stomach at the mere mention of Harry’s job is _such_ a contrast to the flush he’s feeling throughout his body. Either way, Eggsy keeps it low-key and tries to hold on to his sensibilities. “If you really think I’m drunk, you wouldn’t send me back.”

Harry’s jaw clenches. Because he’s right, Harry can’t. After ensuring Eggsy sleeps, _he’s_ the one who has to leave. He needs some air. The apprehension and nerves are only tendrils of a beginning. It’s bound to get worse.

Especially with the way Eggsy smiles, coaxing. “What about ‘third time’s the charm’? Come on. One last time, promise. You’re acting like I’m at some party--I’m _here_ , I’m safe with you, ain’t I?”

The words sink like lead in Harry’s stomach and he stares, heart heavy. “...Of course you are.”

“See?” Eggsy implores, standing up and making his way for the bottle. He sits on the edge of the coffee table and pours, facing Harry directly. There’s a few inches of space between their knees and even lesser between their feet. “I’ll even let you watch real close. You can stop me anytime.” Eggsy pauses, staring down at his own glass. His stomach flips in protest. Eggsy brushes his socked feet against Harry’s slipper as he lifts the bottle and meets Harry’s gaze. “Do you wanna die with me?”

Dazed at the words, Harry absently turns the shot glass in his hand and finds himself offering it, eerily hearing his own voice say the word, “Honourably.”

He wishes he was lying.

But Eggsy smiles, content, pouring him a drink. The pleasant satisfaction doesn’t last long when he remembers that Harry’s going to prioritise work again. And, yeah, people should prioritise that shit--but Eggsy’s biased, okay? He doesn’t even really know what Harry’s job entails.

Eggsy’s never really asked because--Why not? Why the bloody hell not ask?

“How was work?” He questions, partly fishing for information and partly stalling. He’s drank honey whisky twice and he needs to fucking build up to that shit again.

It won’t take long considering how smoothly Harry evades the question. “You’ve already asked me that.”

“No,” Eggsy counters calmly, powered by the familiar cold indignation in addition to the neutral expression on Harry’s face. He’s hiding something. Eggsy can sense it. “I asked you how your _day_ was--Work is different.”

Harry cuts his gaze away to his shot glass. “Work was fine, Eggsy.”

The words only add to the quiet resentment growing inside. Eggsy tilts his head. “Why do you look guilty?”

“Pardon?” Harry looks at him, seeming to be genuinely caught off-guard. Like he’s innocent or somewhat. But _no_. He’s not--Eggsy begins to oddly feel vindictive as he scrutinises him.

“You have the best poker face I’ve ever fucking seen,” Eggsy tells him calmly, “You don’t need to worry about that. But _I_ can tell anyway.”

At a loss, Harry stares at him in stilted silence, ignoring the way the hair on the back of his neck stands.

Eggsy leans back slightly, getting a good overall look at him. “What did you do at work?” At the continued silence, Eggsy decides to change tactics, huffing. “I mean, there’s gotta be something _great_ about it, yeah? You keep going back to work _every_ time even though it’s pretty obvious it fucks you up.”

“Work is _work_ , Eggsy. It has to be done--”

Eggsy laughs, the underlying _sharpness_ of it clear to Harry’s ears. “How are you, by the way? Remember that work-related _accident_ you had? The _other_ one, not the first. Not the bruises and the soreness on your body either, _no_ , not _that--_ The _stitches_ on your head,” Eggsy points out, genuinely curious and internally seething as he eyes the side where the injury should be.

Unable to stop the self-conscious instinct fast enough, Harry’s head slightly turns away. “It’s fine.”

“Okay,” Eggsy responds pleasantly, deceiving. “Whatever you say, Harry--This work of yours, when will you be going back? Tonight’s Lestrade’s anniversary party. You said you were going, didn’t you?”

Harry takes a sip of the whisky, keeping it in his mouth and suffering the taste for a while before swallowing. He has to go, he has to discuss matters with Michelle. It’s killing two birds with one stone. He doesn’t think he can find any other time to do so. “Yes.”

“You gonna dance with my mum?”

Grinding his teeth, Harry shakes his head. “Not this again. If she _wants_ to dance, I will go along with it, Eggsy. Nothing more than that.”

“Okay.” Eggsy shrugs simply, chuckling. But his eyes are severely unamused. There’s something there that Harry finds very, _very_ dangerous. “About work--C’mon, _humour me_. What keeps you going back, Harry? Is it fancy posh people stuff? Hoity-toity clients for your suits inviting you to grand parties? More vintage alcohol? People lining up to have a shag?” He teases, empty and provoking.

Harry holds his gaze longer than necessary--And suppose that’s the trick, innit? Because it’s excessive in a way that’s almost defensive. When Harry cuts his gaze away, Eggsy can’t explain it.

He can’t explain it but he _knows_.

He hopes he’s wrong, he _wishes_ he was wrong.

Powering through the sick roiling of his stomach, Eggsy raises his head, staring straight at Harry. He waits for him to meet his eyes. But Harry doesn’t; He only sips at his whisky again before he finally speaks, “That is none of your business--”

“Did you sleep with someone?” Eggsy asks, tone blank.

“I didn’t _sleep_ with--”

Eggsy bares his teeth, clarifying, “Did you _fuck_ \--”

“For fuck’s sake, that is _none_ of your business,” Harry snaps. “You don’t have the _right_ to ask me--”

The scoffing laughter escapes Eggsy, helpless, disbelieving and in pain. “Fuck you.” He stops, trying to breathe properly. He can’t.

He fucking can’t.

No amount of air is ever going to be enough.

Eggsy takes a quick drink and--" _Fuck_ ," He seethes, chest and shoulders rising with it. “Fucking _disgusting_.”

He stands, restless, making to move away.

“Stop that,” Harry begins to admonish, reaching a hand out. “Give me your glass.”

Eggsy only turns to him, the look in his eyes cutting. “Fuck you. _I_ don’t have the right?” He questions, hand gripping at the shot glass. “What about those times you kept meddling into my supposed sex-life, giving me condoms and shit--”

“That was for your _safety_ ,” Harry argues, “As the responsible male adult in your life, I--”

“Playing _‘daddy’_ ,” Eggsy provides, scoffing bitterly, “Is that right?”

Grinding his teeth, Harry can’t stand the look of betrayal on Eggsy’s face and it doesn’t make sense, it doesn’t, it has to _not_ make sense or else--Harry squares his shoulders. "It’s useless to be offended on behalf of your mother--"

"Fuck you! It’s got _nothing_ to do with that and you fucking know it," Eggsy bursts out in a fit of anger.

Despite being rendered speechless at the intensity, deep down Harry worries about his neighbours hearing. Something in his stomach sinks deeper and he feels as if he’s about to break out into cold sweat even though he realistically knows that’s unlike him.

Eggsy’s next words are quieter, but no less sharp and goading. “Ain’t you gonna ask if I kissed anybody since the _last_ time you asked?”

“That was for the sake of your split-lip," Harry counters sensibly. Despite how convincing he made it sound, he realises how _weak_ an excuse it is.

From the way Eggsy stares at him with that astonished expression, Harry _fears_ that he knows it. This might be what will finally tear them apart and--

“Ask me how many people I’ve kissed,” Eggsy suddenly tells him, stone-faced.

Harry’s mind goes blank and he looks away.

He doesn’t want to know.

He doesn’t.

He doesn’t want to know how many people have--Harry holds his head high. “It’s none of my business. As I’ve said, I respect your privacy so long as it doesn’t compromise your safety--”

“Fuck you.” Eggsy takes a few steps and sits on the coffee table again, facing Harry directly. Near threatening, he leans forward, elbows on his thighs. “ _Ask_ me--Ask me how _many_ \--”

Harry forces the words out, uttering lowly through gritted teeth.

“How many people have you--”

“ _One_.”

In the encompassing silence, Eggsy’s gaze is unwavering as he stares Harry down, almost as if he’s ready to be challenged. And he’s right to be on-guard because--

 _That doesn’t make sense_ , Harry thinks. His mind immediately supplies him with names and faces from Eggsy’s school, young ladies who had looked at Eggsy a certain way, their flirtatious attentions _reciprocated_. Yvonne Jansen, Janine Fernandez, Alicia Longman among _others_ \--

Eggsy bares his teeth as he grinds the words out, deep and heavy and accusing, “I’ve _never_ kissed _anybody_ but _you_.”

The air rushes out of Harry’s lungs. Overwhelmed by the conflicting thoughts, he struggles to think.

Because such a statement isn't true--Harry doesn't--He can’t, and he’s shaking his head. “I have _never_ \--I don’t re--If it’s the... _incident_ by the bar a few weeks ago, it--” Harry takes a deep breath and braces himself for it. “It doesn’t _count_ , Eggsy."

Harry doesn’t know how he can assure him any other way, but Eggsy’s lips are thin and he looks resigned and _gutted_ all at once. “Of course not.”

Eggsy goes on to shrug, listless, staring down at his shot glass. He takes a sip, keeping the revolting liquid in his mouth. Guess there’s something about building up to tolerance after all. It’s as bad as the first time he tasted it, he’s simply getting used to how shit it is, especially as Harry continues to make excuses.

“If anything, it was a lesson. You were asking me how to initiate a kiss, remember? And you--It’s _alright_ , Eggsy, it doesn’t count--It was barely a kiss to begin with.”

Eggsy bites down on his tongue. The fire of furious indignation and the bitterness of rejection is still there, waiting to be flamed higher, but Eggsy simply swallows and makes to take another sip.

“Eggsy--” Harry tries, doing his best to tamp down the senseless guilt, but Eggsy holds the glass out. When Harry tries to take it, Eggsy moves it away before hovering it a few inches away from Harry’s mouth.

“Have a taste,” Eggsy implores, attempting to distract himself. He has to because he’s _shaking--_ It might not outwardly show, but Eggsy feels it. The same way his pulse is _deafening_ in his ears, the same way his eyes _sting_. If he gets any more angry, he doesn’t know what he’ll do. He’s terrified. Because deep down, he knows it’s not Harry’s fault. Harry didn’t know. Maybe Eggsy’s been delusional all this time. But a part of himself argues _otherwise_ , demanding some kind of petty _revenge_ and--"Maybe there’s something different about my glass."

Harry’s expression is stricken. “You believe I put something--”

“No,” Eggsy snaps, scrunching his nose. “Just--go on, have a taste,” He urges, pushing further and touching the rim of the glass against Harry’s lips. A split second should be enough of a warning, and he tips the small glass, watching the liquid move--and see, he knows Harry has no choice. Harry loves his damn clothes, doesn’t he? If he so much as dares to lean back and away, the drink will spill on those expensive arse clothes and Harry would probably be cross with him.

Either way, Eggsy doesn’t care. If Harry gets angry, then good. Because Eggsy will be _angrier_. And Harry will be soaked and Eggsy will have an excuse to tear his clothes off.

Eggsy breathes through his bared teeth. “Go on, have a taste--” His throat goes dry, watching Harry instinctively swallow the liquor down before he expertly maneuvers Eggsy’s hand away.

“Eggsy, we need to talk about boundaries,” Harry begins.

“How does it taste?”

Spurred on by a certain urgency, Harry waves away the question vehemently. “It tastes how it always tastes--That’s not the point here--”

“Isn’t it?” Eggsy mildly replies, eyes on Harry’s lips even as he sets his glass down and begins to get up from his seat on the coffee table. “If it’s not my glass, maybe it’s yours. Maybe there’s something special about it--Give it to me.”

Harry immediately moves his glass away, pulling his arm back and resting it on the backrest of the sofa. “Eggsy, you’re being unreasonable--”

“Yep.” Eggsy sets a knee on the cushions right next to Harry’s thigh. “That’s me.”

Instinctively putting a hand out to keep Eggsy away doesn’t do much, not when Eggsy’s sweeping down to brush his lips against Harry’s, making him freeze in absolute distress and euphoria.

Harry’s ears are _ringing_ , and his world _shifts,_ making him dazed enough to let his eyes fall shut.

“...What are you doing?” Harry utters, blank.

Eggsy’s quiet breaths are far too loud, even as he whispers against Harry’s mouth. “M’tryna get a taste.”

Harry manages to suppress a shudder--When he opens his eyes and sees Eggsy lick at his own lip, grazing Harry’s with his tongue, he ultimately fails.

A vestige of sanity remains and Harry attempts to pull back, but Eggsy has his warm hands pressed against Harry’s cheeks. The mere pressure those hands exert is a warning in and of itself.

“ _Shh_ ,” Eggsy hushes him, staring with intense concentration at Harry’s mouth because--"It tastes right." He squints, genuinely confused. His fingers lightly touch Harry’s lips like that could make him understand. It doesn’t make sense. “Why does it taste right?”

Harry hisses out the breath he didn’t realise he was holding. “Eggsy-- _Don’t_ \--”

Eggsy quickly takes a chance to steal Harry’s shot glass and drinks from it, immediately holding back a cringe. “Nuh-uh--” He offers it against Harry’s protesting mouth, pouring a bit in, barely a spoonful--it’s only a shot glass after all, there’s hardly anything left--which is why Eggsy swiftly covers Harry’s mouth with his, getting a real taste before Harry gets to swallow.

It’s _filthy_ wet and Eggsy loves the way Harry’s breath hitches when he sucks at his lip. He’s fucking _buzzed_ with it.

Harry puts a hand on Eggsy’s hip, trying to push him away, but then Eggsy’s wrapping an arm around his neck, fully settling down on his lap now and absently placing the glass somewhere on the coffee table behind himself.

Harry doesn’t know what to do.

For all his training and experience, he’s completely at a loss. He’s too wrapped up in trying to forget the way Eggsy tastes so _sweet_ with a sharp biting aftertaste. When Eggsy pulls his mouth away, Harry can barely stop himself from following. As Harry looks up at him, entranced, he realises that he’s never been under such a higher _power_ \--and Harry knows he never will be again.

It’s _devastating_.

Eggsy has his eyes closed, nose lightly bumping against Harry’s as he murmurs, “You taste good.” Eggsy slowly nods over and over again while Harry weakly tries to push him off--What’s left of his mental faculties disappear when Eggsy utters through gritted teeth, “Did _she_ taste good?”

Harry goes still with despairing remorse, silent.

“...Or was it a he?”

The hand on Eggsy’s hip clenches before Harry works to pry his fingers off one by one. He struggles to be unaffected the way he _should_ be. “Does it matter?”

“...No,” Eggsy whispers, his right hand moving to settle on Harry’s head, fingers lightly grazing on the scalp, unassuming, before they suddenly _grip_ at the hair near the injury, prompting Harry to take a sharp inhale. Eggsy’s been avoiding that spot many times before, but things are different now. “ _No_ ,” Eggsy hisses lowly. “It doesn’t matter.”

Against his will, Harry hears the pain and the accusation and he stupidly thinks to tell him that--

 _I didn’t kiss her_.

 _I didn’t even come--By your definition it doesn’t count_.

It’s absolutely pathetic and Harry keeps his mouth shut. Because he doesn’t owe him any explanation. Harry is an adult and doesn’t need to justify his actions to a teenage boy--

A teenage boy who is currently on his lap.

 _Fuck_.

Harry has let it gone too far. How did they get here?

Desperate, Harry aims to sound authoritative. “Eggsy, you need to get off.”

“Damn right, I do,” Eggsy asserts, leaning back in, and Harry puts a palm against his throat, unyielding.

Eggsy only presses _harder_ , breath hitching, pulse _erratic_ under Harry’s hand--And that should _not_ turn Harry on.

Harry needs to make a list. Harry needs to write them all down. Harry should work his way through the things that shouldn’t turn him on regarding Eggsy Unwin and get over them.

“Eggsy, I am asking you--”

“You gotta teach me, Mr. Hart,” Eggsy says, voice fucking hoarse from Harry’s hand on his throat. He doesn’t even know whether or not he means it. Because if he can’t have Harry all the way through--fuck, he’ll take anything.

 _Anything_.

“Teach you _what_ , Eggsy?” Harry grits out, releasing Eggsy’s throat to focus on breaking Eggsy’s hold on the back of his neck instead. That’ll be more effective in prying him off. Realistically, Harry knows he can push him away. He knows he can.

But he would have to hurt him.

“You gotta teach me how to kiss,” Eggsy breathes against him. “You _owe_ me--”

“I owe you nothing,” Harry rebukes in a panic. “That is not how a gentleman--”

“Fuck that gentleman shit--I meant it, you know.” Eggsy takes a deep breath. “Never kissed anybody but you, Harry,” Eggsy reveals, nosing against his cheek.

Harry resorts to begging. “Please, _don’t_ \--”

“‘Don’t’ what, Harry?” Eggsy prompts in mock sympathy.

Harry can’t stop his own pathetic thoughts fast enough.

_Don’t make me--Don't hurt me--Don’t make me--_

Harry keeps his mouth shut, willing himself to move, willing himself to leave, willing himself to escape.

“ _Hmm_?” Eggsy goads him under his guise of innocence. “Do you know what happened, _every_ time I tried to kiss someone else?”

Harry shakes his head, as much as he can with Eggsy still gripping at his hair. His heart is pounding and his thoughts are _devolving_. Harry would never admit to something like a panic attack, but if he did--

“Harry, you _called_ me,” Eggsy complains, “You _texted_ or something happened and I thought of you and _god_ , it put me off.”

Self-revulsion claws at Harry’s insides, rendering him silent once more.

“You fuck me up, you know that?” Eggsy murmurs, anguished. “Why you gotta cock-block me like that?”

“I didn’t--” Harry swallows when he hears how ragged his own voice is. “--I wasn’t aware. I--”

Eggsy’s hand clutches Harry’s hair tighter. “You do that to _me_ and _you_ get to _fuck_ around halfway ‘round the world?” Eggsy accuses, articulating, nails digging into the back of Harry’s neck. “I don’t fucking think so.”

“I won’t do it again,” He finds himself promising, pained. Harry won’t contact Eggsy unless absolutely necessary, he will not interfere. “I won’t.”

“Damn fucking right,” Eggsy utters, grip on Harry’s hair softening as he tries to pet the pain away. “Why would you look for anyone else when I’m right here? _Hmm?_ ”

Harry’s brows furrow. It takes a second longer for him to realise that they’re having two different conversations. The implications of it leaves Harry blanched. “No--”

“Teach me," Eggsy continues to demand against Harry’s temple, deceivingly soft. “Teach me. Don’t you like teaching me things, Mr. Hart?”

What Harry hears is this: ‘ _Teach me for the_ future _\--Teach me so I can use it for someone_ else.’

The thought alone genuinely starts to make Harry even more nauseous. While this opportunity is the greatest temptation of all time, it is one he is determined to go against.

“Eggsy, you are _intoxicated_ ," Harry manages to point out, and saying it aloud helps him gain a bit of rationality back, because that _is_ the truth. As much as he wants to give in and _ruin_ Eggsy Unwin for anybody else in every sense of the word--That is not how it should be. Eggsy’s a hormonal teenager who is clearly willing to resort to people he _shouldn’t_ for pleasure.

It is clear to Harry now. He can say no. One of his principles in life is that people often do have a choice. It’s simply easier to think otherwise. Harry had somehow forgotten that. All this time, he’s been giving into Eggsy, accommodating him, going beyond that, spoiling him. As much as it felt like it was _necessary_ , it wasn’t. He realises it now. Harry _can_ say no.

He can.

And he will.

“Bullshit," Eggsy scoffs. “C’mon, Harry.” He even laughs a little, like this is all a game, but the more Harry tries to pry Eggsy’s hand from the back of his neck, the more Eggsy seems to realise that Harry is serious.

The humour disappears in an instant, replaced by a fickle veneer.

A muscle near Eggsy’s mouth twitches as he attempts to smile, but it ends up something like a sneer. “You think you’re the only one?”

The way he says it is ominous, and Harry feels the fear at the pit of his stomach before he even understands. ”What?”

"You think--" Eggsy chuckles, and it sounds tremendously _cruel--_ "You think you’re the only one I can go to?"

Harry is rendered frozen, his mind desperately attempting to parse out the words any other way than it’s supposed to mean.

“Mr. Hart,” Eggsy murmurs against his lips, tilting his head and nosing against his cheek, “Do you know how many older gentlemen would _love_ to _teach_ me things?”

Fear is a terrible entity, leaving Harry cold and speechless, especially when Eggsy’s mouth is against his ear, enunciating slowly in a quiet whisper, “Do you think that you’re the only one?”

The hands that aimed to push Eggsy away now grips at Eggsy’s hips in terror and rising _fury_ , further escalated by more words coming from Eggsy’s mouth, deceiving in their soft delivery. “Hmm, you know what?” Eggsy nods against his hair, seemingly decided. “M’terribly sorry for being _rude_ , Mr. Hart--It’s fine, I think I have an appointment for self-defence lessons today anyway, I wouldn’t want to keep Henry waiting--” Eggsy begins to move as if he’s going to leave, and all Harry’s mind supplies him with is the handkerchief that Eggsy had earlier, that towering letter _‘H’_ in the monogram--It implies that whoever this Henry is, he got close enough to give Eggsy his handkerchief, close enough for Eggsy to _accept_ it. This man got _that **close**_ \--

Harry snarls.

In a quick motion, he unseats Eggsy from his lap as he pushes forward, hands under Eggsy’s thighs as he slams him back on the coffee table, narrowly managing to avoid the tray of liquor. It hardly matters. Setting a knee on the surface, Harry pushes those off with a sweep of an arm and he watches Eggsy flinch as the glasses break on the floor. Harry pins Eggsy's wrists with one hand over his head against the table, and Harry is content to keep watching him, looming over his form.

Whatever it takes to keep him safe, Harry will do it.

He lets the silence do the job for him. Anticipation is almost always the worst part in torture situations.

And it’s wrong to think of this that way, Harry knows. But it's familiar to him. Even though it seems as if it was a lifetime ago since he’s been on a proper assignment, this is familiar.

Harry is eerily calm as he stares him down, eyes tracking the way Eggsy's pulse is erratic on his neck. He’s hypersensitive to the way Eggsy’s subtly attempting to test his hold on his wrists. Harry only takes the chance to strengthen his grip as he bears down on him in a way that he’s sure comes across as intimidating.

Eggsy fails in trying to be quiet when he breathes in sharply.

“Are you scared?" Harry questions neutrally.

Eggsy immediately shakes his head, and the way he does it, nearly frantic, gives it away.

Harry lets him pretend he’s believable before he lowly lectures, “You _should_ be.”

At that, Eggsy's breath seems to rush out, eyes closing briefly before they open, hazy, holding his gaze. “Harry--”

Leaning further down, face hovering above his, Harry utters the words clearly. “Do you think that these...theoretical men would go easy on you?”

Eggsy opens his mouth, but nothing comes out.

Harry tilts his head, experimentally tightening his hold on Eggsy's wrists. A pained noise escapes Eggsy’s throat.

“Does it hurt?" Harry asks needlessly.

“Ff--yeah, it hurts, Harry--” Eggsy bursts out, cringing.

“Good.” Harry bears down harder, a few inches away from Eggsy's face. “Gentlemen aren’t necessarily _gentle_.”

Eggsy presses his lips tight, chin raising in an illusion of dignity. Were this any other scenario, Harry would commend him.

“Tell me to stop," Harry prompts. When Eggsy shakes his head, Harry repeats the words with a hint of steel. “Tell me to stop.”

“Stop--” Eggsy breathes, cut off by his own pained hiss when Harry clutches _tighter_.

“Do you think that these men would care about you?” Harry asks, teeth bared. “Do you think that these men would care whether or not you're in pain?” He hisses, candid and cruel. “Your well-being is _nothing_. It is _inconsequential_ compared to the selfish pleasures they seek to achieve.”

Eggsy’s breath hitches, and for a moment Harry wants to back away immediately in the fear that Eggsy’s going to cry, but he’s doing this for a reason. Because Harry can't be here all the time, he can't watch over him and protect him from terrible people and inadvisable decisions. As much as it pains him, he intends to follow through. He’s crossed the line, he’s broken the trust, and he’s doing it to keep him safe.

“Do not _ever_ think to even _consider_ these abhorrent degenerates," Harry utters lowly. “The consequences will be _unthinkable_.”

Eggsy only stares at him, breathing short and shallow.

It worries Harry that Eggsy isn't struggling the way he should be, that he isn't kicking and screaming--it doesn't bode well for potential undesirable situations he might get into and Harry’s stomach coils in despair at the thought. “I need you to promise me-- _Eggsy_ ," Harry stresses, a hint of desperation seeping through, “I need you to--"

“Let me go," Eggsy orders, hoarse, and Harry automatically does.

There is a devastating moment in which the truth of the situation fully dawns on Harry.

Eggsy will never look at him the same way again.

Eggsy will never trust him again.

But Eggsy will be more wary now, he will have second thoughts about carelessly trusting people who are bound to take advantage of him.

And that is all that matters.

When Eggsy’s hands have stopped feeling his own wrists for circulation, Harry remembers himself enough to start moving away.

And when one of those hands move towards him, Harry freezes. Because Eggsy is well within his rights to hit him.

Eggsy’s left hand grips at the top of Harry’s tie and Harry waits in terse silence.

“You’re a fucking idiot,” Eggsy croaks in an outburst, hooking a leg to the back of Harry’s, derailing any attempt of escape.

Before Harry can even ask, Eggsy’s pulling him down by the tie and reaching up, meeting his lips for a kiss.

“Fuck," Harry curses sharply against his mouth, “What the bloody fuck did I just say?" Compelled by instinct, he bites at Eggsy’s lower lip.

It’s supposed to be a deterrent.

But Eggsy’s pained whine turns into a moan right before he retaliates, slowly sitting up and biting back.

It’s wholesomely _voltaic_.

The goosebumps wracking through Harry’s skin and the blood rushing to his ears a distraction that slows him down.

“Fucking gentleman, my arse.”

“Eggsy--" Harry puts his left hand up, right on Eggsy’s throat, trying to prevent him from coming closer.

Eggsy’s right hand covers it and he interlaces their fingers together.

Harry hisses. “Do the words I say mean nothing to you? I’ve just said--”

“Then _give_ me a reason to stay," Eggsy breathes against his mouth and Harry leans away, but as always, Eggsy only follows. Soon enough, they’re back where they started, Harry sat on the sofa and Eggsy on the far end of his lap. “Don’t let me go to someone else.” Eggsy presses his lips to Harry’s, lingering before he utters, “I don’t want to go to anyone else. Why would you make me do that? Why would you do that to me?" Eggsy shakes before he kisses him again and again, quick and short, as if that's all he knows. “It’s okay--It’s a lesson, isn’t it? It doesn’t count--” Eggsy’s free hand moves to grip at Harry’s hair. “It doesn’t count.”

Anguished, Harry lets out a shuddering breath, closing his eyes.

‘ _It doesn’t count_ ,’ It repeats in his head, taunting and assuring at the same time.

‘ _It doesn’t count_ ,’ It goes on and on until Harry begins to believe it as well.

‘ _It doesn’t count_ ,’ Harry thinks in his own voice as he finally leans in to kiss him, tentative and soft.

Silence overtakes the room and they simply breathe against each other for a moment.

Eggsy huffs out a short disbelieving laugh and his warm hand is on Harry’s jaw as he leans in, murmuring, “Yes.” Eggsy nods and nods, encouraging and breathless. “ _Yes, Harry_.”

While Harry stews in vertigo, Eggsy helplessly shudders. The overwhelming excitement fills him up and no matter how deeply he breathes, he still can’t calm down. Because this is it, isn’t it? He’s got him.

He’s got him.

Whether or not Harry truly does want him is an issue that’s put on the back-burner. Eggsy just has to be _good_. He has to be the fucking best and Harry will want him. Who wants to make an effort and look for someone else for a shag when you’ve got someone close by? Eggsy has to be _so_ fucking good that Harry will never want anyone else again.

So he tries not to be embarrassed when he kisses him the only way he knows how--Enthusiasm should make up for it, right? Just being able to do this, being _allowed_ this--Eggsy’s fucking ecstatic. He’s desperate and pathetic, he knows, but god, he feels so fucking _good_ he’s fucking _dizzy_ with it. Especially when Harry kisses him back again.

It’s lingering, it’s sweet. It takes his breath away and sets him on _fire_.

He’d gladly burn for Harry Hart any day.

Eggsy takes a chance to mimic that kiss, but he eventually devolves to kissing him fast again because what if Harry changes his mind? God--

“Eggsy,” Harry begins softly and Eggsy whines, trying to reach for his lips again, but Harry just keeps pulling back. “Slow, Eggsy. Slow.”

Sighing in frustration, Eggsy tries to calm himself down, closing his eyes. He’s fucking shaking. “Teach me, then. _Christ_ \--” He leans his forehead against Harry’s, nose slightly bumping against his.

“What do you wish to know?” Harry swallows.

“Everything," Eggsy slurs.

Harry huffs, mouthing at his cheek, and when Eggsy tries to follow, there’s a reprimanding thumb high up on his throat, holding him in place. “Care to elaborate?”

“The tongue thing,” Eggsy stupidly blurts out, mortified. “Teach me the tongue thing.”

Harry shakes his head, but before Eggsy can complain, there’s a thumb pressing hard on his cheek, forcing his mouth open.

He can’t even react but Harry’s murmuring against him, hazy, “You’re going to regret this.”

And then Harry’s tongue is in Eggsy’s mouth and--Christ, that _is_ fucking weird. Eggsy can’t even begin to explain it.

But he shivers with the exhilarating sensation that runs through his body, and Eggsy does his best to reciprocate with as much determination as he possibly can.

It’s a fucking mess. It takes a while to even recognise the rhythm, much more to get into it in the first place. It’s embarrassing but Eggsy’s fucking _sprung_ anyway. He doesn't even know how long it’s been when he gasps for air against Harry’s mouth.

“Had enough?” Harry questions softly.

When Eggsy opens his eyes, he eventually notices a single thread of saliva from Harry’s lips to his and--He shivers, helplessly flushing. That is fucking _filthy_. Embarrassed, he aims to get rid of it, but then Harry’s thumbing at Eggsy’s mouth, disconnecting the thread and pressing it back to his own lips.

“Fuck," Eggsy whispers, shuddering, leaning in to lick Harry’s mouth open instead. He relishes the way Harry looks when he finally pulls back. Eyes dark, hair out of place, the man looks wrecked-- _ruined_ \--Gorgeous.

Just the sight of it makes Eggsy more light-headed than he already is.

Eggsy wants to ruin him some more. He distracts him with a chaste kiss while his hand goes to Harry’s tie. He manages to loosen it before Harry stops his movements, shaking his head.

“Don’t--”

“But you look a bit hot and bothered,” Eggsy murmurs, failing to look innocent as he leans back just to get a good overall look at him. “Lemme help you with that.”

Eggsy’s eyes track the way Harry swallows and god--Eggsy’s allowed certain things now, right? So he just leans down and buries his face against Harry’s neck, breathing deeply. “You smell good, Harry. I--You’ve always--” He sighs and eventually goes still at a certain realisation. “Did you take a shower?”

“What?" Harry questions, clearly out of it.

But Eggsy’s suddenly reminded of why this is happening in the first place, why he threw it all in the wind--He grits his teeth. “I don’t smell them. Whoever you fucked, I don’t--" He buries his nose against Harry’s neck and tries to pick up a different scent. He moves to other parts and sniffs again, aggravated. “I don’t smell anybody else--”

Eggsy doesn’t know why he’s making a big deal out of it. It’s not like he’s a fucking bloodhound. He can’t track them down by scent alone.

But he’d like to know.

He’d like to know just in case he ever meets them.

And _then_ \--

“Eggsy, of _course_ I took a shower," Harry answers. He says it like it’s a fucking given. Come to think of it, Eggsy didn’t smell anything off earlier when he was on Harry’s lap in the office either. And that’s--

“Do you do that every time you come home from work?" Eggsy demands, mind muddled and _hysterical_. “How many _times_ do you fuck around at work, Harry--”

Harry’s hand is on his head, fingers gripping at the short hair and pulling up, forcing Eggsy to follow and meet his gaze.

“That is _still_ none of your business.”

Eggsy seethes, straining against Harry's hold to speak against his mouth. “Fuck you.” He bites at Harry’s lower lip and licks into his mouth, slow and wet. “You used a condom, yeah?”

Harry sighs out, disapproving. “You’re asking very personal questions.” But he’s nodding his head anyway, and Eggsy doesn’t know whether or not Harry meant to answer that.

“Well,” Eggsy begins, hoping he doesn't sound too petulant as he nuzzles against him. “You don’t have to use it with me.”

Eventually, Harry goes very, very still.

“What.”

Eggsy nods, trying to convince him--Because blokes at school have been complaining to each other about it plenty, about how girls always want them to use a condom. And while Eggsy disagrees with them, it’s different in this situation, isn’t it? He ignores any doubts and apprehensions, powering through. “You don’t have to use it with me, it’s not like I’ve fucked anybody, yeah? And--”

Harry hisses.

Eggsy nods again. “ _Yeah_. That means I’m clean and--”

“Even if that were _true_ , Eggsy, you shouldn’t offer such a thing so carelessly, it doesn’t mean the other party is. You can never be too sure. People will say _anything_ to--”

“With how you fucking lecture at me with condoms and how annoying of a gentleman you are, you probably get yourself checked all official-like every other month or something,” Eggsy argues vehemently, going on to stress, “And we ain’t other people--We’re real, you and me.” He’s suddenly reminded of the way Harry was earlier in the office, the way he doubted reality. That worries him, and he cups Harry’s face, noting how dazed he still seems to be. “Look at me.”

“I am.”

“No, _look_ at me,” Eggsy grits his teeth. “I’m real. You’re real. _We’re_ real.”

At that, Harry seems to be overcome with these barely perceptible tremors, and Eggsy can feel it because Harry’s free hand goes down to grip at his sweatshirt. The hand on Eggsy’s head slips down to his face, tentative in its touches. Either way, Eggsy leans into his touch as he continues in his struggle to convince him. “Harry, you don’t have to mess about with anyone else. You gotta know I’m here, yeah?” Eggsy leans in closer. “You can do anything you want.”

Harry’s shaking his head like he refuses to believe it, and Eggsy talks over whatever stubborn doubts he may have. “Anything-- _Anything_ , Harry.” The hand on Eggsy’s face settles on his jaw, fingers gradually pressing harder against his cheek while the thumb digs into the place right under Eggsy’s chin, tilting his head up. For a moment, Eggsy’s self-conscious that Harry would feel his pulse skyrocketing, but he notices Harry’s gaze is locked onto his neck and he immediately remembers--”Harry, you can kiss me anywhere you want, how many times you want,” Eggsy bursts out in frustration. “Stop with that quota shit.”

He runs a hand through Harry’s hair before clutching and urging him closer. His eyes fall shut when Harry’s mouth brushes against his throat and _fuck_ \--Eggsy shivers. He honestly tries to hold back any sound he automatically makes, but god--He’s harder than he’s ever been in his fucking life. Eggsy isn’t even sure how he’s still alive. When Harry’s mouth moves, there’s a split second where Harry’s teeth grazes his neck and--

“Fuck--” Eggsy jolts, arms going around Harry’s neck and burying his face in Harry’s hair. “Yes,” He slurs, breathing fast, “Yes, yes, yes, _yes_ , Harry. Whatever you want, whenever you want--” He tries to tamp down the noises but Harry’s _tongue_ is on his skin. “ _Ah,_ ff--” He shivers, leaning down to whisper heavily into Harry’s ear, nonsensical and desperate, whatever it takes to get Harry on board. “You can fuck me raw with your bare cock and--”

Harry hisses again before biting at Eggsy’s jawline, and the _sting_ of that--Christ, Eggsy feels his own precome against his pants soaking through--When Harry’s hand curls to a fist against Eggsy's sweatshirt, practically pushing him away, all he can do is focus on Harry’s knuckles against his abdomen. Eggsy sighs, firmly adjusting his position on Harry’s lap and pushing closer.

He can’t help the whine that escapes him when Harry actually pulls back from his neck and insists, “I’m teaching you how to kiss, that was your proposal. If you think we’re going beyond that, you are _severely_ mistaken.”

Surprisingly enough, Eggsy finds it in himself to actually laugh. Because--Harry probably didn't think they’d ever get here, did he? Eggsy's on his lap and they’ve been touching and kissing each other in ways he probably never even thought was possible. Gazing down at Harry’s face, it’s clear that he’s at least a _little_ bit worked up.

So really, what does Harry know?

Eggsy almost feels bad for him. But fuck, once they get past the blunders and the hesitations, Eggsy is so fucking sure Harry will _love_ it. Eggsy will do his best to _make_ him love it. Harry will want to keep him. That’s all Eggsy wants.

Don’t get him wrong, he appreciates how Harry’s expression is stern, but there are things that give him away. Harry’s eyes are dark, his thin lips are slightly puffy and red, his mouth is parted and the air that rushes through it coincides with the way his shoulder rises as he breathes.

Fucking gorgeous.

When Eggsy tries to lean in and kiss him, Harry’s hand goes down to his throat, simply preventing him from getting any closer.

“Christ,” Eggsy mutters, unable to fully tamp down a grin. “You know that shit turns me on, right?”

Seemingly by pure instinct, Harry’s hold slightly tightens. Harry’s narrowing his eyes like he doesn’t believe it, and Eggsy forces himself to lean into the touch just to prove it.

It’s a standoff all on its own and Eggsy's _winning_ \--That is, until a thought suddenly strikes him and he finds his breath _hitching_ because--

"Hey--" Eggsy rasps, captivated by the idea. “Harry-- _Harry_ , d’you think you can make me come just by your bare fingers?”

The world stops. Pure silence follows. It’s only for a second but it feels like a lifetime.

And then Harry’s _hissing_ , his clutch on Eggsy's throat tightening as he drags him down for a biting kiss.

Elated and honoured, Eggsy doesn't hesitate giving back as hard as he can. “See?” He manages breathlessly inbetween their rhythm of quick dirty kisses, “I’m a fast learner--”

“Your teenage depravity knows no bounds," Harry gnashes through his teeth as he drags his hand wide over Eggsy’s mouth.

“Yeah," Eggsy breathes, high from the euphoria, instinctively taking Harry’s fingers into his mouth. He doesn’t know what the fuck he’s doing but god, you can be sure he’s doing it with hazy enthusiasm. His mouth waters at the salty taste of Harry’s skin and he moans as he runs his tongue against the pad of his fingers.

The look on Harry’s face is something between disgusted and turned on and that’s more than fine by Eggsy. More than fucking fine. Harry pushes his fingers further in, breathing deep, and Eggsy just takes it.

He has to. Fucking hell, if Harry’s fingers feel this fucking long and massive in his mouth, how could he possibly take Harry’s cock?

Fuck. Harry’s cock. Is it as hard as Eggsy’s?

Unfortunately, Eggsy can’t look that far down because Harry has firm control on his head and they’re far too close as it is. Eggsy resorts to blindly feel it. His only mistake is letting his fingers graze Harry’s thigh because Harry immediately catches his hand and moves it away before he can fucking get at it.

Eggsy whines in frustration around Harry’s fingers, grazing them with his teeth.

Harry retaliates--The tips of his fingers reach the back of Eggsy’s throat and Eggsy holds himself back from choking. He feels spit dribbling out of his mouth and it’s such a fucking mess but he’s just so fucking into it. Because Harry’s looking at him different now, like he’s overwhelmed by the possibilities and--

The fingers pull back and Eggsy automatically makes a noise of complaint but then Harry’s _kissing_ him again. It’s deep and it’s sweet and it’s everything he’s ever wanted, leaving him shaking and wanting more.

“ _Yeah_ ,” Eggsy breathes harshly against his mouth. “Teach me, Harry. Teach me everything. Teach me how to make you feel good.” He holds Harry’s face again, the tips of his fingers buried in Harry’s hair as he gazes down, meeting his eyes. “Teach me how to make you _come_.”

Harry’s eyes fall shut as he _heaves_ and his voice is _dangerous_ when he attempts to speak, “You _fucking--_ ”

The next thing Eggsy knows is that he’s being moved--Harry’s hands grip under Eggsy’s thighs before he stands and _hoists_ him up. Eggsy instinctively wraps his legs around Harry’s waist and wraps his arms around Harry’s shoulders. Call him paranoid, but he ain’t fucking letting go for _anything_. He surges down and latches onto him with a kiss.

Harry only keeps walking, step after step, carrying Eggsy with him. It takes longer than it should for Eggsy to realise and they’re already in the _hallway_ for fuck’s sake--” _God_ , you’re fucking strong, ain’t you? _Jesus_ \--” He kisses him again, hip twitching, bearing down. Eggsy’s frustrated at how far up he is, settled against Harry’s stomach. He can’t feel Harry’s cock. He wants to feel Harry’s cock.

As much as he tries to move and loosen Harry’s hold on him just a bit so he can slip down, Harry is relentless. Eggsy whines in complaint, desperate and aggravated. “Harry--Harry, c’mon.”

Eggsy squirms and squirms until Harry slams him up against a wall before they even get halfway up the stairs.

“Fuck--” Eggsy gasps. This is all his dreams come true, bloody fucking hell--

“Ruinous,” utters Harry, forehead against Eggsy’s, the word itself simultaneously accusing and scolding.

Eggsy doesn’t even care, nodding back against him. “Yeah, _yeah_.”

When he leans in for a kiss, Harry avoids him, seething the word against Eggsy’s cheek, “Ruinous.”

Eggsy whines in complaint as Harry shakes his head.

“ _Ruinous_ ,” Harry snarls and bites at Eggsy’s neck.

“Ff--” Arching his back against the wall, Eggsy twitches, and there’s no fucking way Harry doesn’t feel his cock through his sweatpants. Fucking hell--Eggsy wants to come so bad but he manages to hold himself back. He wants to last, he doesn't want this to end before he’s got Harry’s cock in his hand. He _has_ to prove himself. “ _Hngff_ \--yeah,” Eggsy’s voice breaks as Harry keeps at it, and it _does_ hurt. It’s a sharp pain, but it’s a good pain because it’s _Harry_. It doesn’t matter if it’s Harry, Eggsy can take anything if it’s Harry. He grips at Harry’s hair, encouraging. “Yeah, yeah, yeah--”

“Ruinous,” Harry accuses inbetween bites, tasting his skin. “Ruinous, ruinous, ruinous--” Because Eggsy’s supposed to be scared. He’s meant to be afraid and hate Harry and do everything he can to push him away--Eggsy’s not meant to be this responsive and eager. He’s not meant to be hard against Harry’s front and running his fingers through Harry’s hair. Eggsy’s not meant to spur him on and encourage him.

Eggsy Unwin is ruinous. He’s devastating and he’s absolutely dangerous.

The words leave Harry’s mouth, low and quiet. “I’m going to keep you.”

Eggsy’s breath hitches, and Harry thinks this is it, this is their saving grace, and Eggsy takes a deep ragged breath in before he exhales in a sound that is far too much like a _sob_.

“Yes,” Eggsy shudders, “ _Yes_ , Harry.”

Short of breath, Harry shakes his head.

Perhaps Eggsy doesn’t _fully_ understand--Perhaps--

“I’m going to keep you,” Harry threatens once more. Because that’s what it is, it’s a _threat_. A part of Harry is already devising several different ways to keep him, whether it’s introducing him to all kinds of ecstasy and ruining him for anyone else or an even darker scenario that involves Michelle. If they go through with this, Harry’s going to need a way to _stay_. He’s going to need an excuse for why he’s so close to Eggsy, why Eggsy keeps coming over to his house every day after school, why Harry will give him things and take him on trips all over the world.

A mortifying sinister part of him knows the answer, knows the plan.

Harry’s going to have to stay close to Michelle, he’ll make her fall in love with him if he has to--He’ll marry her if that’s what it takes to give the world a proper excuse and keep Eggsy close--Harry’s absolutely disgusted with himself.

But Eggsy’s nodding against him, frantic and eager and guttural in his agreements. “Yes--Yes, yes, yes, _yes_ , Harry. Fucking--Keep me. Keep me, keep me, keep me,” Eggsy whispers, kissing Harry slow and impassioned.

When he kisses him back, Harry’s never felt so much sense of purpose in his life. He’s falling apart and his gut lurches with fear and guilt and ecstasy, but he kisses him again and again and clutches him tight, turning toward the rest of the stairs and taking one step after another to their downfall.

There’s a part of him that protests, a part of him that pleads for a compromise. Eggsy’s first time should be gentle, he should be taken apart slow until he begs for mercy--and Harry’s not capable of that right now. He’s _not_.

A part of him pleads to wait until Eggsy’s sixteen as if that fixes everything, as if that rights all the wrongs.

A reminder of Eggsy’s threats earlier encompass all those requests. Eggsy won’t wait. Eggsy will go and find someone else.

Harry doesn’t trust anyone else. Not when it comes to Eggsy.

“I’m gonna be so good for you," Eggsy swears thickly, relishing the way Harry sighs against him. “We’re gonna be _so_ good for each other.”

They’re almost upstairs, and as much as Eggsy wants to see Harry’s bedroom at last, he finds himself reaching for the door handle to the guest room the moment they pass it by.

Honestly, anything could fucking happen before they get to Harry’s room and Eggsy ain’t risking that shit. Blindly opening the door behind himself, Eggsy leans back, and the way Harry automatically follows like he’s scared Eggsy will fall over is just so fucking precious, Eggsy can’t help but immediately kiss him again.

Once inside, despite the lights being off, he absently notices how brighter his own room is compared to the rest of the dark house, and he actually remembers that it’s still the afternoon--That hardly matters because Harry’s slowly walking them towards the bed, step by torturous step.

As they pass by the desk though, Eggsy almost wants to stop and ask if they could do it there instead. Eggsy needs to list a bunch of places and surfaces they have to fuck on, he swears it. Unfortunately, the moment has gone by and they’re passing by the window.

Harry’s breath hitches and then one of Harry’s hands move, trying to uncross Eggsy’s legs behind his lower back. The second Eggsy even starts to relent, Harry’s hands are gripping under Eggsy’s thighs again before Harry throws him on the bed so hard that Eggsy fucking _bounces_.

“Jesus,” Eggsy gasps, moving his legs wider apart as Harry takes a few steps closer.

This is it, this is fucking it. Eggsy’s waited long enough, he’s gonna come within the next fucking minute or he’s gonna die.

When Harry leans over, Eggsy surges up to kiss him, getting lost in it. He might be so fucking gone, but he’s still blindly reaching for the waistband of Harry’s trousers. It catches him off-guard when Harry suddenly yanks the duvet from underneath him and covers him with it, disorienting him with a roll or two.

It takes Eggsy a while to react, bewildered under the heavy fabric. “What the fuck?”

He tries to untangle himself from it and get out but it’s taking longer than it fucking should--"Harry? What the fu--” His heart starts to pound for a different reason altogether because he doesn’t feel him close. The moment he finally emerges, he sees Harry walk out of the door just in time and--

”Fucking hell,” Eggsy exclaims in disbelief, because he doubts he’s off to get a condom or some sort and--"Harry fucking Hart," Eggsy yells, “If you don’t come back here, I swear to god--” Eggsy grips at his own cock through his sweatpants. “Shit. I’mma come without you. Don’t think I won’t," Eggsy threatens, shoving his hand in his sweatpants and wanking himself off in a slow torturous grip. “Oh my god, I’m gonna fucking come on these sheets and I ain’t gonna be the one taking care of them."

Hissing, Eggsy turns, kneeling over the bed as he pants and fucks into his hand in furious desperation. The arm he’s trying to hold himself up with trembles and his hand is a fist digging into the pillow. If he was stronger, if he wasn’t fucking _delirious_ with the need to come, he’d follow him, he _would_. But--

“Harry--Fuck,” Eggsy mutters nonsensical curses, leaning his forehead against the pillow as he shakes. He’s so fucking close and--"I’m gonna get you back. Don’t think I won't,” He swears through gritted teeth. “Don’t think I won’t."

Eggsy heaves as he comes, chanting Harry’s name in breathless gasps, again and again until he collapses against the sheets.

On the other side of the door, Harry shudders at the echo of his own name, gripping his own cock through his trousers.

There’s nothing like pure daylight to shine upon your sins and burn you in absolute _shame_ , jolting you back into miserable reality.

A few seconds of silence more and Harry’s certain that Eggsy’s passed out. He won’t pursue. That’s all Harry needs at the moment. He needs to get away.

Harry automatically tries to focus on the several things he needs to get done today to stave off the arousal. He has to clean the mess downstairs, he has to get Eggsy a different birthday gift--the first one was a terrible idea to begin with, never again--he has to get ready for Lestrade’s party. It starts at twenty-one hundred which means he has about--

Taking the few steps to the stairs, Harry stops, finding himself staring at his watch.

Heart heavy, he looks to the door.

Harry should want him to forget. He does.

But Eggsy forgetting doesn’t ensure that he won’t go after someone else. Someone like Henry, whoever he is. Harry has to find that out as well.

It doesn't deter from the fact that things will be different between them if Eggsy _does_ remember.

Stomach churning, Harry watches his own hand fiddle with the settings.

‘ _Amnesia_ ,’ the word stares up at him.

It’s the right thing to do.

It’s--

Harry takes a few steps back, hand placing itself on the doorknob. Taking a deep breath, he leans his forehead against the door.

He waits for his hand to turn the knob, but it seems to be waiting for him.

Harry shakes his head.

He can’t.

There shouldn’t be any need to.

Eggsy drank three shots of hard liquor in less than ten minutes.

He won’t remember a bloody thing. He shouldn't.

The bloody fucking  _child_.

 

 

 

 


	31. 30

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lestrade's Party. conversationsx3487640372. longest night in history  
> draggy nonsense. intense constant whiplash. the enlightenment.
> 
> p.s. the inevitable suffering looms

 

 

When Eggsy wakes up, he feels like absolute shite. Just _muttering_ about feeling shite makes his head hurt some more, the vibration of his own voice fucking everything up.

He whines.

“Galahad,” He rasps, blindly reaching a hand out and patting around on the bed like he’s actually gonna find him there. He doesn’t even remember where he’s put him last.

Either way, he notices the weird stuff on his hand.

It takes a full ten seconds of staring at it in the dimly lit room for him to finally realise what it is.

Dried fucking come.

Jesus fucking christ--It all comes back to Eggsy in a rush.

Well, not _all_ of it. But _sensations_ , touches, warm breaths, _filthy_ wet kisses, teeth--sharp, _sharp_ teeth.

Fucking Harry Hart pulling an escape maneuver the last minute, the rotten _bastard_.

Eggsy glares at his hand.

Gross.

But that’s okay, Eggsy decides.

He’ll get him again.

It shouldn’t take much. Harry was very...responsive. He thinks. At least, that’s what he remembers?

Eggsy has to close his eyes at the waves of arousal and fondness that wash over him at the flashes of memories. God, now that Eggsy’s had a taste, there’s no way he could possibly back off now.

Fucking hell.

He feels like a fucking loser when he shudders.

Eggsy will get it done.

Just as soon as he cleans up and gets rid of this fucking headache.

If this were any other situation, he’d probably stay in bed all day. Eggsy actually powers through the pain and the nausea to sit up. He takes a moment to just breathe and exist, hoping it’ll get rid of the wooziness. His head feels like a sack of potatoes and his mouth tastes like shit.

Shifting slightly to get his legs over the edge of the bed, he also notices how his pants is just full of dried come, along with the sheets and--

“Fucking...Harry Hart, the fucking tosser,” Eggsy mutters, letting his eyes focus across the room.

He blinks.

In front of the wardrobe is a big [box](http://i.imgur.com/sodzjrS.jpg), light grey with large green circle swirls, and Eggsy can’t really believe what he’s seeing because _Galahad’s_ lying on top of it--

Is he hallucinating or something? Is that shit infectious?

He squints, slowly standing up and making his way there. Upon closer inspection, it’s--

Holy shit--It’s a fucking _Xbox 360 Elite_. Fucking--What the fuck?

Partly hidden under Galahad’s fin is a tiny paper with a fancy scrawl.

 

_‘For your birthday. The first one was a mistake. Forgive me.’_

 

For a long time, Eggsy stares before his eyes narrow.

A _mistake_ , is it?

Eggsy scoffs, pointing warningly at Galahad. “Your father’s gonna get it from me, just you watch--” He stops. “Actually, don’t watch. It’s weird. That’s weird, mate, don’t do it.”

The _point_ is, Eggsy’s even more determined.

Taking a moment to just stand there in silence, Eggsy tries to get a feel around the house.

Harry’s not home.

Clearly.

He rolls his eyes, ignoring the nausea and the regret that comes with it. Looking over to the clock on his desk, he can’t see fucking shit ‘cos it’s starting to get really dark. It’s gotta be half past eight or something. Which means Harry should be over at Lestrade’s party. That shit starts at nine.

“Tsk.”

It’s fine, a shower will do him good anyway.

 

 

\--

 

 

“Once again, I apologise--”

Michelle rolls her eyes, huffing. “How many times you gonna apologise? The night hasn’t even started.” She pointedly looks around the Grand Hall. The final touches of the event’s preparations are being made by a few servers checking on the food and the tablecloths among other things. There’s a large space in the centre, presumably for dancing. “S’nice, isn’t it?” Michelle crows. “Didn’t think Lestrade to be the posh kind.”

Harry manages to close his mouth and refrain from undoing her subject change. He tamps down the urgent need to apologise again and again. He hasn’t even been able to look her in the eye for a full second since they first saw each other a few minutes ago.

Suppose it's a side-effect from having nearly mauled her son--among many of his transgressions towards her and her family.

“Give the Inspector a bit more credit, it’s a ten-year anniversary after all,” Harry plays along as they walk on, exiting through the large open door leading outside. “It’s bound to be special.”

“Huh, even _here_ there’s tables," Michelle remarks, scanning the spacious greenery where dining tables are set up under large gazebos. Even though there’s barely any sunlight left, the view is spectacular, Harry has to admit. With the way he can practically sense the giddiness radiating off her in waves, Michelle clearly feels the same. “I reckon the inside _and_ the outside are two different prices--How much do you think this place costs?”

Passing by a food table, Harry smoothly takes a flute of champagne and sips, wishing it was water. “Why?”

“Mmm, dunno. Maybe I should start saving up for Eggsy’s wedding too.”

Harry nearly chokes on his champagne and trips on an errant piece of rock that is suspiciously out of place in this area. He attempts to clear his throat. “That’s--I’m sure it will be taken care of when the time is nigh.”

Michelle raises an eyebrow at him. “Why? You think my son’s gonna marry rich?”

Heavy into his discomfort, Harry doesn't want to think about it. “I’m simply saying that there should be enough time for you to save up for it. He’s only...fifteen, for hell’s sake." The words feel like ash in his mouth.

Fifteen.

He’s still fifteen.

Even if Eggsy was in his twenties that wouldn’t change the fact that Harry’s far older than he is.

They’re thirty-one years apart.

If Eggsy was twenty-one, Harry would be past fifty. If Eggsy was twenty-seven, Harry would be nearing _sixty_.

There's no way out.

Harry never had a chance. Half of his life is already over. Eggsy's simply starting his.

“You’re absolutely right, Hart," Michelle nods in agreement, and for a moment he fears he’s spoken out loud. “Especially with this new job, I should be able to keep me and Eggsy afloat even if he goes to an expensive uni--I think.”

“Ah, yes," Harry manages to smile. “I do believe a congratulations is in order.”

Michelle snorts, waving him off. “I was gonna tell him, but…” She frowns.

Harry mirrors it. “You haven’t told him the good news?”

“Well, I was _going_ to, but he seemed really off and distracted, and then I thought it was better not to tell until I was _really_ sure, you know?”

“...Michelle, the job is yours," Harry slowly tells her.

She looks mildly uncomfortable, staring out to the encompassing green of the space and the wooden bridge up ahead. “Well, there’s still the initial training I have to go through. After that, we’ll see, won’t we? I don’t wanna tell him I got the job if they can still decide I don't make the cut.”

Harry nods, but he doubts she sees it. They stay there for a moment in silence. On the surface, he supposes there's a certain kind of awkwardness, but a more pressing issue is the guilt starting to corrode Harry’s insides the longer he stays in her presence. It doesn’t help with the lingering headache that he can’t seem to shake off. He regrets deciding not to take one of those Kingsman pills for pain relief and hangovers. Granted, he has a few of them in his suit jacket pocket, but he’s holding off on them until absolutely necessary. He doesn’t like being dependent on such things.

He clears his throat. “Did you get here fine?”

She snorts. “Yeah, with that cab you sent for me, I got here fine.”

“...Good, that’s--”

“You didn't have to do that--”

“No, I--" Harry stares at a tree a few yards away. “Have I mentioned you look lovely in that dress?”

There’s a beat of graceless silence before Michelle snorts. “And here I thought you were meant to be suave and shit.”

“What.”

“You’re being awkward--but it’s kinda charming, it’s fine.”

Harry sniffs at that. What utter rubbish. In what world could he, Harry Hart, be possibly awkward?

Michelle huffs, shaking her head. “You don’t look so bad yourself. That suit’s slightly different from the ones you usually wear. It’s more simple--but not in a bad way,” She hastily adds. “It’s different. It’s nice.”

“Thank you,” Harry responds for the lack of anything else to say. This suit was a deliberate choice. He’s not at work, after all. It’s a way of blending in despite the formality of the event. Besides, this is one of the suits he wore going undercover in Holland Park. That should do a good enough job.

It doesn’t really steer from the fact that this is a very unpleasant conversation to be part of. All he wants to do is leave.

But he can’t. He has to make things right.

“I apologise for not being able to be there--”

Michelle sighs. “Hart, honestly, it’s fine.”

In the silence, the wind picks up slightly. Harry swallows, helplessly remembering Eggsy nosing against his cheek, puffs of breath setting Harry on _fire_ \--

“Oi, look at me.”

Neutral expression achieved, Harry tilts his head towards her, waiting.

“Clearly, you’re a man who’s into his work, yeah?" Michelle begins, “And I’ve just gotten this job--or at least the go-ahead to start training for it--The point is, it’s not the right time to be...doing that sort of stuff, yeah? Or maybe it’s just not meant to be?”

This is the moment, Harry is eerily aware. This could be the moment where he proves her wrong and ask for another chance. This could be the start of a dark insidious plot to keep Eggsy by his side for what’s left of his short miserable life.

But as Michelle stares back at him, expectantly waiting for a response, Harry thinks... _no_.

Not in this universe.

Michelle Unwin is the wife of the brave man he’s gotten killed a few years ago. Michelle Unwin is the mother of the... _child_ that Harry loves.

And god, does Harry love Eggsy Unwin.

The mere notion fills him up with a certain feeling, expands something in his chest as he breathes in, overwhelming him and _gripping_ his senses until he’s ready to suffocate.

Harry will do what’s best for Eggsy. No matter how much he wishes he could be selfish, it’ll only be a dark unspoken fantasy in the quiet solitary nights. Nights that he knows he won't remember.

Eggsy deserves better. Eggsy deserves all the good things in the world.

And so does Michelle.

In another universe, Harry is weaker--or stronger, it depends on perspective. In that universe, he is unrelentingly selfish and unapologetic and he gets what he wants no matter the consequences.

That is not this universe.

Well, it _is_ , but--Not with him. Not with Eggsy.

 _I love him far too much_ , Harry realises, and it hits him like a punch to the stomach.

Nevertheless, he keeps his composure and smiles softly. “Quite right, Michelle. I might be sent away soon for the job, after all.”

Her brows furrow. “Sent away?”

“A transfer of sorts," Harry provides. “Overseas. Long-term.”

“...Oh." Michelle actually appears quite in shock, if not a bit sad. Harry worries that she might actually feel something for him but--"Does Eggsy…? Does he know--”

“No," Harry admits. “It’s nothing official yet," He tries to assure her, but it feels like a lie. “There’s no set date.”

“How soon will you know?”

“...In two weeks or so, perhaps."

Michelle nods, biting at her lip. “Well, Eggsy’s gonna be…” She huffs. “I don’t know.”

“If you could, please, do me a favour and not tell him just yet?" Harry asks. “As I’ve said, it’s nothing official.”

When she looks at him again, there’s something quite shrewd about it. “...Tailoring, huh?”

“...Yes--As your son would put it, ‘International posh tailoring for hoity-toity clients’."

Michelle abruptly laughs, and it’s a real genuine laughter that Harry feels rather proud of. It’s a good sound coming from Michelle, a rare one. Her smile eventually fades and she shakes her head. “He likes you, you know.”

Harry stares at her, heart heavy.

She huffs. “Like, obviously he won't _say_ it, but--I suppose he was always lacking a father-figure in his life.”

Expertly hiding his nausea, Harry huffs back. “Don’t sell yourself short, Michelle. You’ve raised him well.”

“Mmm, yeah, I hope so.” There’s worry in her expression but it’s gone by the time she turns to him. “Don’t worry about it.”

He finds it rather odd that _she’s_ the one assuring him, but she keeps nodding on and on with something like encouragement. “Don’t worry about Eggsy--You gotta do what you gotta do. You’re a working man, ain’t you? That’s just who you are.” She shrugs. “Some people have family, some people have work. Eggsy should understand. Either way, he’ll get over it.”

Harry swallows. “Yes. I gather he will.”

“He’s a strong lad, him," Michelle announces, head held high.

“Yes,” Harry agrees, “I doubt he’ll even remember me in a few years.”

She snorts. “That’s on the side of _too_ dramatic, Hart. He’ll at least remember what you look like this time around.”

There’s humour in her tone but the reality of it burns like acid in the pit of Harry’s stomach. He can't do anything but nod.

Michelle seems to remember something, frowning. “Ah, shit--So when you said ‘in two weeks or so’ will you still be working as you wait?”

“...I presume so. It depends--Why?”

“Ah, well, that’s--" At Harry’s raised eyebrows, she huffs. “See, that training I have to do for the job, I have to go out of town for that," She begins, looking uncomfortable, “That means I’d have to leave Eggsy for days on end--Not that that’s anything new with how I work a lot, exactly, but it’s still different. I won’t be home at night to check on him or something--or at any point of the day, for that matter,” Michelle rattles on, and it finally dawns on Harry what she’s trying to get at.

Tamping down the severe discomfort, Harry clears his throat and chuckles, aiming for levity. “I’m sure no teenager wants an old man checking in on them constantly.”

“Well, no, not _constantly_.” Michelle rolls her eyes. “But it wouldn’t hurt to have some adult supervision every now and then--I mean, it’s not that I don’t trust him. I _do_ \--He’s responsible and all that good stuff, maybe a _bit_ impulsive every now and then, but--He’s still a kid, you know? I worry about him.”

Harry nods automatically. “I understand.”

“Hasn’t he been over at your place a few times?”

Harry freezes, dreading what this will lead to. “...Yes.”

She seems to pick up on a bit of tension, backtracking immediately, “Sorry, this is weird, isn't it? What with this--" She waves a hand between them. “--happening. Or _not_ happening, I mean. Shit, this is awkward, huh?” Michelle shakes her head, painfully chagrined. “It’s not your problem, sorry--”

“No, it’s--I want to make sure he’s safe.”

“...Yeah, but you’ll be _working_. You can’t just leave him in your house all by himself," She remarks, like it’s common sense.

Bewildered, Harry stares at her, unable to fully understand. Because while Eggsy _is_ young, it’s not as if he’s a bloody toddler who needs constant supervision. She’s said it herself: Eggsy is _responsible_. Mostly. It’s not a matter of life and death; Eggsy can find food, Eggsy can cook, Eggsy can clean up after himself and--

It eventually dawns on Harry what she actually means.

"No.” Harry can’t quite control himself, keeping his head held high. “I trust him.”

Michelle stares back. “You would leave my son alone in your house--which I’m guessing is full of expensive stuff?”

The offence is steadily rising higher and Harry likes to think he keeps it under wraps. “He won’t steal anything, Michelle, he’s not like that.” He ignores the fact that Eggsy once broke into his house with that exact same intention.

Her eyebrows rise. “I’m not saying he is, I’m just saying most people would be more...careful of who they’d leave behind in their home. Besides, it’s not just that--That boy could be planning a sex marathon, your house could be collateral damage," Michelle points out, cringing.

Harry’s lips thin. There are two possibilities that make his stomach churn. One is Eggsy going on the full offence against Harry, and that’s harder to avoid with Eggsy officially staying in his house for a few days with _Michelle’s_ permission. Second is the idea of Eggsy bringing someone else to his home and--

“He wouldn’t," Harry grinds out.

“You sound so sure," Michelle muses.

“He _wouldn’t_ ," Harry repeats, “Because--”

 _Other people don’t belong there_ , The thought materialises, unbidden, an echo from an earlier conversation. _He knows it._

It’s such a jarring concept, and simply having thought about it has its own implications. Ones he doesn't wish to think about.

“...Because?" Michelle prompts.

“Because as cheeky and _petulant_ as he is sometimes,” Harry says, purposely long-suffering, “He’s--” Harry almost stutters. Almost. “He’s a good boy." Harry clenches his jaw once the words leave him, overcome by shame.

Michelle whistles. “Damn. I’d agree but--No offence, I’m _honoured_ you think that--As responsible as he is, no adult should probably that have much confidence in a teenager. Hell, just remembering myself as one, I wouldn't.”

“Quite right," Harry admits, genuinely recognising his own fault as he watches the final stages of sunset. “But it is what it is.”

“...So," Michelle tentatively ventures, “He can stay over at yours?”

Dread curdles in Harry’s stomach. He has to say no, but doing so after his own self-righteous tirade about trusting Eggsy would simply be outlandish and offensive. “...If he so wishes," Harry decides neutrally. “I doubt he’d want to. Even if he didn’t, I’d be willing to check in once a day at your flat, just to make sure he isn’t…” He trails off, unwilling to think about it.

“Getting smashed and having an orgy?” Michelle provides.

Harry purses his lips through the sickening roil in his stomach. “Yes, that.”

Michelle laughs, shaking her head. “You sure?”

“Yes." Harry discreetly takes a deep breath. “I’ll be busy working most of the time anyway, it shouldn't be any trouble.”

 _Shouldn’t_.

Harry could work for twenty-one hours and come home to check on Eggsy asleep, make sure there’s food in the fridge, leave again for HQ.

“Tsk, tsk, tsk," Michelle teases, “See? I knew you weren’t so bad.”

Harry hides his hand in his pocket as he sips on champagne, trying to wash away Eggsy's taste in his mouth, digging his fingernails into his palm.

_If only you knew._

 

 

\--

 

 

While the shower helped a bit, his head still hurts.

He’d go rifling for one of Harry’s medical kits but he doesn't really have the time or the patience for it.

Even packing his rucksack is a task. It's not like he's going to put much in it, besides, he'll probably just end up coming back home after all, so just snacks and lots of water for the trip maybe and--Eggsy catches sight of the vintage camera that Harry gave him.

Yeah.

Definitely that.

Cavendish's handkerchief too. That shit doesn't belong in this fucking house. Bloody sacrilege. 

Eggsy hurriedly walks down the stairs, palming his pockets to make sure he’s got his wallet and his mobiles--Two of them, at least. There’s only enough space for his black and gold Motorola and Cavendish’s green mobile. One's personal, one's business. He doubts there’s ever a need for the second one tonight, but just in case.

Eggsy makes a turn for the foyer, ready to leave, but he finds himself stopping in his tracks.

Slowly, he turns back to stare at the grandfather clock.

Unless Eggsy is hallucinating, that shit ain’t right. He didn’t spend two fucking hours in the shower as much as it felt like it with the heat practically fogging up everything in the bathroom.

Fucking--

Despite all logic, Eggsy sighs, resigned, and goes into the living area. He walks to the bar and grabs a stool to carry back.

He sets it in front of the clock. He climbs, knees on the high seat, and he opens the glass cover. 

Eggsy sighs again, muttering under his breath. “Honestly, what’s the use of a grand old clock like you if you don’t even do your job right?" He pulls out his mobile to check the actual time and adjusts the clock face manually. He’s done this before. It doesn’t really make him any less patient as he works at it.

“Tsk. I’mma give him a talk. Just you watch. You’re both in trouble. _He_ should be the one doing this shit--It’s like ‘ _Oh, I’m a posh international tailor. I love my job, I travel all over the world--but I don’t even have the fucking time to fix my own clock at home even though it’s just about the_ first _thing I see the moment I get through the door_ ’,” Eggsy mockingly grouses.

Once everything is all said and done, Eggsy returns the bar stool to where it belongs.

As he makes his way back, that’s when he actually remembers glass shattering on the floor earlier, when Harry had him pinned against the coffee table.

Flushing warmth aside, Eggsy blinks at the living room floor.

It’s fucking pristine.

He actually kneels just to scrutinise the area, but there’s no scratches or any kind of evidence. Come to think of it, _everything_ is in place. Eggsy’s pretty sure they jostled a few stuff earlier too, the coffee table, one of the sofas, the cushions.

It’s fucked up how a part of his mind starts to doubt if any of it was real and--

_Of course Harry wouldn’t just leave broken glass on his floor, you fucking idiot._

God, for a moment there he actually thought--

Bloody hell, this shit’s karma for what he did to Harry early in the morning for sure.

“Touché," Eggsy mutters, failing to ignore the guilt and the cold fear he has trouble letting go of.

 _It was real_ , Eggsy affirms to himself, trying to kill the doubts, _Shut the fuck up_.

Standing tall, he makes his way to the foyer again and stops by the coat stand. It’s probably gonna be cold out tonight, he might as well use Harry’s scarf.

It’s not like Harry ever does anyway.

Eggsy huffs, trying to figure out how to put it on without looking like a poof or a pretentious wanker. Honestly, who wears a scarf with a formal suit?

... _Technically, you_ are _a poof_ , A voice in his head tells him.

“What the fuck?" Eggsy mutters. “No, I ain’t--Just for the one," He defends himself against no one in particular. “Jesus, look at me talking to myself. See if I ever drink again, watch.”

Before he leaves, he warningly points at the grandfather clock. “Stay true, guv--Stay true."

 

 

\--

 

 

Lestrade eventually finds them and waves them over with something like urgency.

“You two making some dramatic romance of your own on my ten-year anniversary, honestly--” Lestrade bemoans inbetween them as they walk on towards the building. He immediately switches to a different emotional state as they enter the Great Hall. “That’s good, I’m miserable. Take my mind off this.”

Michelle huffs, rolling her eyes. “It’s not like that.”

Harry is quick to change the subject. “One would think a man who put in all this effort would be a _merry_ kind of man--”

Lestrade scowls. “You think I could afford all this? Gemma’s side of the family just _decided_ to help out. Which is not good for my ego. I’ll forever feel like I’m in debt--”

Michelle smacks his elbow. “This ain’t about your ego--”

Harry nods in agreement. “Quite right, quite right--”

“I can’t believe this.” Lestrade looks back and forth between them, dismayed. “You two are ganging up on me--”

“ _Nonsense_.”

Michelle flips her hair, huffing. “I don’t know what you’re worried about, just have fun! You’ve practiced the dance stuff, yeah?”

Lestrade takes a few fast steps away from them and turns, whispering furiously, “Just because I _might_ have, doesn’t mean I want to follow _through_.”

Harry shakes his head, clicking his tongue. He shares a long-suffering look with Michelle. It’s nice to know they have one mutual nuisance in life that Harry can briefly forget about his sins against her beloved son.

This whole event could be a cathartic experience.

Perhaps he can even enjoy himself.

An Eggsy-free evening.

What a concept.

Harry tilts his head at the commotion of photographers, amateur and professional alike, circling around a particular woman. “Would that wonderful [lady](http://i.imgur.com/UhIeuq7.jpg) in the white satin dress be your wife?”

Shoulders hunching, Lestrade’s eyes go round and he curses under his breath before peeking over his own shoulder. He does a double-take, mouth hanging open. “...Oh.”

Despite the bustle around the Grand Hall, Harry can hear Michelle’s barely imperceptible sigh, prompting Harry to look at her.

The wistfulness that taints her happy expression is all it takes for the guilt to creep back in.

How long would she and Lee have been married if he was alive? Would they celebrate in some grand way if it was their ten-year anniversary? Would Michelle have had a chance to show off for once, be in full glamour, pampered with attention and envy by people they know?

Harry immediately looks away and clears his throat. “Will you introduce us or will you continue to stand there like a besotted fool?”

Lestrade whips his head around, clearly ashamed. “Shit, it feels like I’m getting married again--Am I sweating? Am I sweating?”

Michelle snorts, nudging Harry at the elbow. “Ain’t he precious?”

Harry humours her, huffing back in reply.

The glare Lestrade sends their way is rather satisfying. “If she asks, I know you _through_ work, not from.”

Eyebrows raised, Harry shares another look with Michelle.

She mutters under her breath, “What’s the difference?”

As Harry watches Lestrade walk through the space towards his wife, he mulls it over. More people aim to get Lestrade’s attention, even as he and his wife walk together. Lestrade laughs and makes quick conversations as a deflection while his wife more or less does the same thing.

In fact, she’s actually doing better at it. She’s clearly more sociable--But there’s something about her lingering look to people who Harry’s certain is Lestrade’s coworkers.

 _Oh_.

Harry tilts his head to talk quietly to Michelle. “She may or may not like his job.”

“...That doesn’t make sense,” Michelle voices under her breath, “I mean, coppers are generally annoying, but it’s supposed to be an honourable job, innit?”

Lestrade has his arm interlinked with his wife’s but she still has a hand on his forearm that imperceptibly tightens depending on who they talk to. It doesn’t even seem conscious, but that’s the type of thing Harry’s meant to pick up on as part of his work.

“Honourable or not,” Harry begins, “It is one that Lestrade takes very seriously. She may feel as if she’s in competition with his job and his coworkers.”

It’s not that Harry is one for gossip or airing out people’s problems, he’s simply laying it out for Michelle so she can understand and not do or say something that would cause problems, no matter how well intended they may be.

“Ah.” Michelle nods. “Them workaholics. Never home often--But this whole thing should be a nice gesture. It’s _their_ night. No one else’s.”

“Hmm,” Harry hums noncommittally, eyes scanning the space, automatically sorting out who is from Lestrade’s side and who is from his wife’s. Considering how someone has a few files slightly peeking out of their messenger bag with a hand carefully set on it almost protectively, this night might be a disaster.

“Hart, Michelle,” Lestrade begins grandly, “This is my lovely wife, Gemma.”

“Pleased to make your acquaintance,” Harry says, politely holding a hand out to shake.

Gemma huffs, somewhat impressed. “Well, this is new.” She arches an eyebrow at her husband.

“Gosh,” Michelle blurts, “You look wonderful. That dress is--great.”

Second-hand embarrassment is a rare phenomenon for Harry, but in the case of Michelle’s lack of social grace, he might be just victim to it.

Thankfully, Gemma only laughs, clearly charmed.

“Thank you,” She says, “I’ve had it in the wardrobe for a while. Because _someone_ wouldn’t take me out for some proper dancing.” Gemma maintains her jovial expression but Lestrade slightly deflates, muttering under his breath.

“Well, we’re here, aren’t we?”

Still smiling, Gemma only jabs him in the ribs with her elbow and keeps on talking to Michelle. “You’re dress is very nice too, it has that vintage feel I was going for.”

“Ah, yeah, my son helped me pick it out,” Michelle says proudly and Harry is a trained professional, so he doesn’t facepalm.

“Oh?” Gemma looks intrigued. “Is he here, your son?” She turns to Lestrade. “Did you invite--”

“Yes, yes,” Lestrade grouses, “I invited him too.”

Michelle waves any misunderstandings off, clearly not wanting to cause trouble between them. “I asked him, but I think he’d rather spend time with his girlfriend. You know those teenagers,” She huffs. There’s a beat that goes on for a split second longer than it should.

Harry wants to wither away. It’s clear that the Lestrades don’t have children.

Either way, Harry tries to add to the conversation. “I do believe he was under the impression that it would be a drab adults-only event.”

Gemma snorts at that. “Ah, well, quite the contrary.” She waves an arm to where a handful of children are, varying in ages. “It’s a family event too, so distant relatives and their children are here. My friends’ children as well, so I think he would’ve fit in--How old is your son, exactly?”

There’s a moment where Harry simply stares back at her, expecting Michelle to answer, but Gemma’s brows furrow before she looks to Michelle and back to Harry.

Shit.

“We’re not--”

Michelle catches on. “Oh! No, we’re not--” Michelle goes on to laugh awkwardly, leaving Harry to pick up the pieces.

“He’s fifteen, but he’s not...my son.” Harry’s never felt so out of place in his life. The expression of mischievous glee on Lestrade’s face is an atrocity to mankind. “I’m a family...acquaintance. We’re not--”

“Oh,” Gemma says, interrupted by Lestrade’s incorrigible remark.

“Not _yet_.”

“.. _.Oh_ ,” Gemma says again, but with a different kind of understanding.

Harry sighs.

This will be a long night full of regrets.

He could easily leave, but Michelle would be left to flounder. She clearly wants to stay and enjoy herself.

Who is Harry to take another chance of happiness away from her?

 

 

\--

 

 

Eggsy feels like one posh dainty fuck when he pats the sweat off his forehead with a handkerchief.

And so _what_ if he’s late?

Whose fault is that?

He takes a chance to just breathe, staring at the intimidating gate in front of him. Even though it’s as twice as tall as he is, he’s pretty sure he could scale it. He just doesn't want to chance ruining his suit.

It’s rumoured to be two thousand quid after all.

Instead of sweating some more and dwelling on that, he presses the intercom button on the side.

“ _[Eltham Palace and Gardens](http://0-q-0.tumblr.com/post/160263707144/eltham-palace-and-gardens), good evening--How may we be of service?_ ”

“Err...I’m here for Greg Lestrade’s ten-year anniversary--Is that here? Or am I lost?" Eggsy starts to doubt himself, babbling. He could text Harry and ask, but Eggsy’s made it this far without asking. He wants it to be a surprise.

The intercom interrupts his crisis.

“ _Guest party name?_ ”

Shit. What the fuck is he supposed to say? Is he even on some official party list? He never got back to Lestrade on that.

“Err--Unwin? Hart? I mean," Eggsy finds himself stammering, flushed with a ridiculous amount of embarrassment and stopping at the realisation.

 _Unwin-Hart_ , It repeats in his head, involuntary, with a voice of a stranger. _It has a ring to it_.

The heat worsens. Fiddling with his scarf and keeping it high on his neck, Eggsy finds himself looking down at his oxfords to make sure they aren’t scuffed. Thankfully, the gate starts to open.

“ _Gary Unwin-Hart_ ," The polite voice says, startling him, “ _Welcome. The event is in the Grand Hall and the gardens right outside it. There will be a floorplan to aid you in the entrance hall. Enjoy your evening._ ”

What the fuck?

Eggsy grips at the strap of his rucksack. Is he in some alternate universe?

He never said his first name, so that must mean that’s what’s listed on there. He can’t comprehend it.

_What the fuck._

Trying to settle his heartbeat, he walks through the gate, wary of security. Honestly, shouldn’t there be guards outside or something? It’s dark, but there’s a couple of vintage-looking streetlights. Still, he doesn’t see anybody.

It actually takes Eggsy a while to realise that he’s on a _[bridge](http://i.imgur.com/jdvCYn0.jpg)_. Looking over to the side, there’s actual water down there and it goes as far as he can see, bending around the elegant building. But it isn’t running water or anything. Come to think of it, it reminds him of a moat. Like an actual fucking castle.

Wild.

Finally standing in front of the grand [building](http://i.imgur.com/LvKsxiZ.jpg), Eggsy starts to doubt if he’s in the right place again even though it’s practically confirmed. This place is fucking hosh-posh and how much does a copper make anyway?

Shaking the negative sensations off, he makes his way towards what seems to be an entrance. 

The only problem is, there’s no one here. It’s a massive fucking entrance hall with a fancy [lounge](http://i.imgur.com/7IFwDmb.jpg) that looks like it’s from the sixties, but there’s no front desk for reception or nothing. What the fuck. There's no floorplan in sight and he doesn’t have the patience to look for it, but he can hear some old-time [music](https://drive.google.com/file/d/0B6aF7_1BmgYpa0ptVVlCVDJKYzg/view?usp=sharing) faintly playing on. He can’t follow it though--There’s like four doors and two grand stairs and he’s not up for getting into trouble if he chooses the wrong path.

In the corner of his eye, he sees somebody and he immediately whips around in desperation. There’s a little girl in a dress who’s barely seven, and Eggsy’s torn between looking confident and being doe-eyed.

“Hi,” He finds himself saying, “I know I’m super late, but do you know where Lestrade’s ten-year anniversary is at?”

“Err--” She points a certain direction. “Why? Do you know my uncle?”

“Yeah, he uhh...he sort of saved my life,” Eggsy decides to say, and she looks amazed at that. There’s a tiny hint of doubt there though.

Lestrade is clearly in need of some brownie-points. Why not?

“Really?” She asks, leading the way.

“Uhuh, it was all top secret though, hush-hush sort of stuff, he probably can’t tell anyone outside his work.”

“...Wow. And you’re friends now? ‘Cos he invited you, right?”

“Sort of. He invited my mum, she’s here too. And my--” Eggsy stops himself, trailing off in pure embarrassment.

“...Your…?”

Eggsy hastily tries to distract her. “Did everyone eat already? I’m starving.”

“Yeah, it started about thirty minutes ago. Blahblah lovey-dovey introduction and then the food. People are dancing now, I think. Boring.”

Eggsy huffs at that before he remembers, “Oh, right. My name’s Gary, I forgot to introduce myself, I’m sorry.” He puts a hand out for her to shake.

“I’m Jasmine,” She announces proudly. “You’re cute. My sister would like you.”

Laughing awkwardly, Eggsy stops by one of the entrances to the Grand Hall, simply taking the chance to look around and get a feel of the place. There’s a long buffet table on one side and that is honestly going to be one of his main goals of the night. There’s a bunch of roundtables around the space, but there’s a particular area left alone in the centre where people are dancing to an old upbeat song.

What _really_ catches Eggsy’s eye is the grand piano in the corner.

Jasmine tugs at his sleeve. “Let’s go.”

“Okay.” Eggsy lets her drag him. “Where’s your mum, Jaz?”

“Somewhere.”

A part of Eggsy starts to get upset at that. “She just let you walk around by yourself?”

“Yeah, ‘cos--”

“Oh! Miss Jasmine,” A woman in her late-twenties interrupts, looking a bit ragged despite how elegant she looks. “Please don’t run off like that, your mother would have me flogged.” She stops, looking at Eggsy suspiciously.

“I found her outside,” Eggsy feels the need to say. “There was no one else out there.”

She looks a bit chagrined at that. “Yes, well--” She holds out her hands, beckoning, but Jasmine holds onto Eggsy’s sleeve.

“Nuh-uh, Miss Nadeem,” Jasmine says, head held high. “He’s cute. I’m taking him to Rose, she’ll know what to do with him.”

Oh god. What did he get himself into?

The woman even looks more desperate. “Miss Jasmine--”

“Err--” Eggsy huffs, bending down to squat so he can be level with her. “Jasmine, look at Miss Nadeem, she’s looking stressed out. Why don’t you help her out a bit?”

Jasmine scrunches her nose. “She always looks stressed out.”

Eggsy manages to look mildly stern and disappointed at once, and Jasmine pouts, complaining, “Don’t you want to meet my sister? My sister is pretty. I’m going to be like her one day.”

As much as Eggsy wants to cringe, he doesn’t.

What would Harry do?

“I’m sorry, Jasmine. While I’m sure your sister is lovely, I’m taken.”

She scowls. “What do you mean? You’re young! Young people aren’t supposed to be taken!”

Trying not to laugh, Eggsy purses his lips. “Yes, but I am, unfortunately. Always will be. I’m sorry.”

Jasmine pouts again, but this time it’s more sad. “...Okay.” She slowly lets go of her hold on him, and Eggsy motions for Nadeem to do something.

Nadeem hugs her and carries her up to her chest. “Alright,” Nadeem huffs. “Let’s go to your family.” She gives a nod of thanks to Eggsy. Jasmine turns in her hold and points at him.

“If you change your mind though--”

Eggsy laughs, waving goodbye. He focuses on the party, unable to decide if he should attack the buffet first or seek Harry and his mum out. His feet are slowly leading him to the buffet though, suppose that's enough of an answer. The song in the background comes into its high point, trumpets blaring on, and people are cheering along with it, prompting Eggsy to look over the dancefloor, amused.

A part of him settles, and he doesn’t really know how to describe it. Fondness? Gratification? Either way, watching these people happily dancing around is oddly distracting.

That’s when he sees it.

Sees them.

His mum and Harry on the dancefloor.

She’s laughing, somewhat embarrassed, but she’s _enjoying_ herself. It’s an unconstrained kind of happiness that she can barely dance proper, but Harry’s leading her around with this mild look of satisfaction on his face. An expression of contentment. Accomplishment.

The words of the song barely register in Eggsy’s head.

But maybe that’s because his world is _slowing_ down _._

That’s when Harry starts to looks up. Through all the people and things between them, through all the distance, their gazes meet.

There’s guilt there, Eggsy thinks. He doesn’t really know anymore. He’s just stuck looking at him, and somehow, he knows that Harry is too. Even as Harry spins her around, his eyes are on Eggsy. His neck is turning like he’s trying to look away but his eyes are still on Eggsy.

Eggsy wonders if Harry’s doubting reality again.

He wouldn’t blame him. Eggsy’s doing the same thing.

Because as devastated as he is, he isn’t upset.

He isn’t.

And it’s strange.

There’s an assurance, a key that inserts itself in the lock, keeping everything safe and secure; Harry can’t keep his eyes off Eggsy.

That’s how Eggsy knows. He’s still got him.

So he isn’t mad.

His mum is happy too. That’s good, isn’t it?

It’s time to be realistic about things. Harry needs a way to stay close, doesn’t he? And while yeah, they obviously can’t tell her anytime soon--maybe in a few years--they’ll need some sort of...cover. Some sort of excuse. It would be a good thing for his mum to like Harry.

He tries to stop the thoughts but it’s too late, his stomach is already churning with the idea of Harry and his mum dating. While it would be a great excuse to have Harry over or viceversa, Eggsy spending time at Harry’s, they’d be hurting her when she eventually finds out. That’s messed up. No part of him should have even _considered_ that. Ever.

It shouldn’t be in any way _appealing_.

He blames Yvonne and that porn she sent over.

Imagine that, Harry and his mum married. Years and years of secret glances and messing about in the shadows.

Dark excitement like that is only for fantasy. That shit’s more tragic in real life.

Eggsy doesn’t want that for them. He also knows he’d grow to hate her in some way, because Harry would probably have to touch her to keep up the act and that’s--Eggsy doesn’t want that.

There will be a day, Eggsy swears it, when he will hold Harry’s hand as they walk around London, minding their own business. It will probably take a long time for his mum to come around, but they’ll _get_ there. Maybe they can even have a Sunday brunch every other week, the three of them.

He wants everybody to get along.

While Roxy knows nothing about it yet, Quinlan’s begrudgingly accepting--if that’s a word he can use--and his mates have technically met Harry already.

It’s gonna take some work, he knows it. Time too, no doubt.

But it is what it is.

They’ll get it done.

They'll get there.

He can’t help but smile softly as the song ends. Eggsy takes a slow deep breath, overwhelmed by the idea of it all. He keeps his head up, still holding Harry’s gaze.

Harry seems to mirror the way Eggsy breathes, and he finally cuts his gaze away, paying attention to what Eggsy’s mum is saying as they leave the dancefloor.

Eggsy watches for a while before taking a plate and filling it up with food. He saunters over to their table, watching Harry and his mum from behind. There’s an empty seat to Harry’s right.

Convenient.

“Is this seat taken?” Eggsy asks as he puts his plate down on the table, sitting down on the chair.

While there’s shock and excitement from his mum, Harry isn’t even looking at him, but Eggsy notices the way his shoulders slightly straighten. “When you ask such a thing, you should wait for an answer before you proceed.”

“M’kay, Mr. Hart.” The other people in the table are torn between curiosity and amusement. Eggsy politely nods at them, hiding his rucksack under the table. “How’s everybody tonight? Everything good?” He gets murmurs and replies right back.

“ _Psst_ ,” His mum calls to him, a helpless smile on her face. “I thought you couldn’t come along?”

“Me? _Well_ ,” Eggsy drawls, interrupted by Lestrade.

“Gary! You’re here!”

“ _Greg,_ ” Eggsy begins, and Lestrade huffs, rolling his eyes. As much as Eggsy wants to ask about the ‘Gary Unwin-Hart’ incident, he’s not shameless enough to bring it up right now. Eggsy’s more concentrated on the woman Lestrade’s got his arm wrapped around. “Who is this beautiful lady? Please don’t tell me she’s your wife--”

“Oi--”

“Heartbreak,” Eggsy mock gasps before he grins, shaking his head. “Guv, I’m mad jealous. Who knew?”

Lestrade’s wife chuckles. “You’re a flirty little thing, aren’t you?”

“Mrs. Lestrade, I only have good intentions--”

She laughs along with the rest of their audience, correcting him good naturedly. “Call me Gemma, Gary. Good to know you’ve made it, your mum said you were too busy with your girlfriend.” Gemma arches a brow and Eggsy stutters properly.

“Me? Girlfriend?” He turns accusingly to his mum. “ _Mum_ , honestly.”

His mum rolls her eyes. “Whatever you kids call it nowadays.”

“Trust me,” Eggsy begins, propping an elbow on Harry’s shoulder, leaning languidly. “You ain’t got nothing to worry about.”

“ _Mhm_ ,” His mum hums sceptically, prompting another round of laughter in their table.

“Mark my words,” Eggsy announces. “The moment I _ever_ bring someone home to meet you, that’s when you _should_ be worried.”

“That’s why I’ve been waiting,” She snipes back. “And what’s that suit you’re wearing?” She asks, amazed. “I’ve never seen that.” He feels Harry imperceptibly go tense beside him.

“I’ve got a friend,” Eggsy responds smoothly, “It’s a loaner. _Clearly._ ”

“But it really _fits_ \--”

Eggsy actually looks to Harry this time just in case he’ll add something more convincing, but Eggsy double-takes at Harry’s suit. It finally _registers_ to him. “Oi, everybody’s wondering about _my_ suit, what about _yours_? What the hell?” Eggsy huffs, hiding the genuine indignance building up inside.

Gemma frowns, curious. “What’s wrong with his suit?”

“It’s--” Eggsy’s stutter is genuine this time, but his gaze is accusing. “He usually wears fancier ones, with the two buttons side by side.”

At last, Harry speaks. “It would be rude of me to overshadow Lestrade during his ten-year anniversary.”

Everybody laughs except for Eggsy--And Lestrade who mutters under his breath, pulling on his light grey suit one-handed. “Thanks for that, by the way.”

Eggsy’s eyes are still narrowed. It’s not that Harry looks bad, it’s actually quite the opposite. Hell, Harry looks good in anything, but with his usual suits there’s something _too_ formal about it. Something serious and...untouchable.

This suit he’s wearing right now...it’s his Mr. Hart-from-Holland-Park-suit. He’s even got that _stupid_  tie with tiny white polka-dots to go along with it.

He still has that dignified grace, but he’s more... _approachable_.

Eggsy takes his elbow off Harry’s shoulder and leans back in his seat, taking a quick sweeping glance around as he crosses his arms. There’s at least three people who’s looking at Harry with... _interest_. Eggsy keeps his head high and shoulders down. There’s a lady from three tables away, daintily sipping at her wine, and yes, Eggsy sees that shit.

He _sees_ it.

“Anyway, sorry for being late on your special day,” Eggsy starts, looking earnest against the Lestrades. “Did I miss anything dreadfully embarrassing like Greg dancing yet?”

Snorts and giggles abound, Lestrade’s groan tops it all. “That’s it, I’m definitely putting that off now.”

“Hey--” Eggsy raises both his hands in goodwill. “Don’t let me stop you, guv. It’s your and your missus’s special day.”

Gemma nods, approving. “See? Even the boy has his priorities right--Didn’t you say you had a surprise for me?”

A bunch of goading hollers make themselves heard, which honestly echoes back in headaches for Eggsy but he keeps his smile on. Even as Lestrade glares daggers at him, muttering under his breath, trying to move away with Gemma.

But Gemma holds her ground, looking up at Lestrade, pouting her red lips at him. “You’ve only given me one dance--”

“Isn’t the first dance special enough?” Lestrade coaxes.

“Yes, it’s the _first_ dance. It implies there are many to follow,” She sniffs, poking at his suit buttons--Despite her supposedly sad expression, there’s a quirk at the corner of her mouth that she can’t seem to help.

There are actual noises of sympathy, ranging from _‘Aww’_ s to _‘Boo’_ s.

“Come on, Inspector,” One of them cries out.

“Shut up, Anderson--”

Eggsy snorts. “Alright--” He stands abruptly. “If you won’t dance, I will--”

Many things happen at once. Gemma perks up, turning towards Eggsy. Lestrade glares, mouth hanging open. The crowd cheers, but Eggsy’s too focused on Harry’s right hand clutching at his left sleeve, partly hidden behind the table.

Lestrade puts a hand out. “No--I will dance.”

“You sure?” Eggsy teases, making to move from his place, relishing how Harry’s hold doesn’t give.

“I’m sure,” Lestrade asserts, slowly backing away with his wife, who gives Eggsy a thankful wink. Proud of his work, Eggsy winks back. A stupid upbeat [song](https://drive.google.com/file/d/0B6aF7_1BmgYpdnhDSEtMSUozZEU/view?usp=sharing) plays on.

Sitting back in his seat, they all watch Lestrade and his wife dance. It’s so _lame_ , and Lestrade is clearly embarrassed, but he’s _trying_. His wife is charmed, laughing and dancing as terribly as he is on purpose.

Eggsy’s mum nearly has tears in her eyes from the hysteria. “Honestly, Eggsy, that’s cruel, what you did.”

“What?” Eggsy prompts innocently. The moment Harry seems to remember himself and tries to pull away, Eggsy subtly maneuvers his own hand to hold Harry’s under the table. “I did what needed to be done.”

“A real hero,” One man in their table manages inbetween his own ridiculous snorting laughter. “Never thought I’d see the Inspector like this--Kinda made you wish we’ve brought the video-cam for blackmail purposes, eh?” He says to the bloke next to him.

Hungry as hell, Eggsy stabs a piece of meat with a fork and chews as people get back into their own little conversations. He looks over to his mum. “You dancing or what, mum?”

“What.”

He gives her a mischievous look. “You’re dancing, you.”

“I already did!”

“Yeah, I know, I _saw_ you,” He retorts, making an effort to eat properly even though he’s hungry as fuck. “Dance again!” He encourages. This is a rare occasion and he wants her to keep enjoying herself. Maybe she’ll get more sociable after this.

She guffaws. “And what? You’ll be dancing with me, is that it?” She pauses and turns to Harry, frowning. “Did you already teach him how?”

Under the table, Eggsy can feel Harry’s hand seem to jolt before it tries to pull away again. Eggsy holds it steady, lightly bumping his leg against Harry’s.

“I--” While Harry tilts his head slightly towards Eggsy’s mum, his gaze is straight towards the dancefloor. “The basics, I suppose.”

Peering over to his mum, Eggsy spots a glass of wine, barely a quarter-full. “Oi, slow down on that wine, yeah?”

His mum looks at him weird before announcing, “You know, in my time, I’ve drank _pints_ and _pints--_ ”

“Beer ain’t wine,” Eggsy points out, head held high. “Different kinds of alcohol have different effects on different kinds of people.” Harry’s hand is _tense_ , and Eggsy thoughtlessly thumbs at his knuckles.

She chuckles. “You an expert, is that it?”

“Yep. I’ve got a fantastic teacher, me.”

She huffs softly, shaking her head. It’s weird that Eggsy thinks there’s something sad about it, but then she snorts, “As long as you don’t step on my feet. I’ve got a pedicure and that cost me fifteen quid.”

Eggsy’s gasp is absolutely genuine. “ _Fifteen_ quid?”

The headache comes back in waves, but he tries to be cool about it. It’s a special event, she deserves to splurge every now and then.

She deserves nice things. When does she ever spoil herself anyway?

Fifteen quid is nothing.

But _god_ , fifteen quid is like a half a week’s worth of food shopping from Tesco and--His mum still looks chastised and he feels like shit considering they’re in public. 

“Lemme see.” Eggsy peers over where she is, invading Harry’s space.

She’s even more hesitant, practically close to squirming in her seat.

“Come on,” Eggsy goads, clicking his tongue, reaching his right hand to try and move the dangling tablecloth away so he can see--

Harry’s breath is in his ear, words uttered through gritted teeth. “Eggsy--I am more than willing to switch seats.”

“Shh, you’re fine. Stay where you are,” He babbles, clutching his hand in assurance. His mum scoots her chair back and she shows him her pedicure through open-toed high heels--Which he’s never seen before by the way, so those are probably new too. In a charity shop sort of way. “Huh. You right. I wouldn’t wanna step on those. They’re nice, mum. I ain’t no expert--but they’re nice, I suppose.” He starts to lean back and settle in his place, shoulder against Harry’s. “You do you.”

“Really?” She checks.

“Absolutely,” Eggsy affirms, chomping on potatoes and nudging Harry with an elbow. “Tell her, Harry.”

“They’re...fascinating,” Harry tries.

“See?” Eggsy preens. His mum smiles and Eggsy is accomplished. “Time to go on the hunt for a decent dancer then,” Eggsy prompts, scanning the crowd.

“Oi, I’ve already had a dance with your Mr. Hart here--”

“Yeah, but he’s _too_ good, him.” Eggsy scrunches his nose in disapproval, nodding. “He’s exhausting--Find someone else.”

“You are aware that I’m right here?” Harry reminds them, trying to move his hand away again, but Eggsy _grips_ , sending him a dark look.

His mum snorts, oblivious. “I’ve embarrassed myself enough tonight, thanks.”

“ _Nonsense_ ,” both Eggsy and Harry say at the same time.

There’s a pause where Harry goes quiet and Eggsy takes the chance to be inspiring, leaning over again to talk to her in low volume. “No one knows who you are here. You can make a right tit of yourself, it doesn’t matter. You’re never gonna see these people again.”

Mulling it over, his mum sips at the wine before squinting at the dancefloor. “You know what? You’re _right_. I’mma--” She falters slightly. “I’mma be on the lookout.”

Eggsy shrugs and keeps on eating one-handed. To be honest, he’s quite content in listening in on conversations and holding Harry’s hand while music plays on in the background. Maybe he’s delusional, but it helps with the headache--Even though their hands are _sweaty_ as fuck and he wants to let go to wipe his hand. He suspects that once he does, he’s not gonna have another chance.

So fuck that shit.

He scans around the space, wondering where Lestrade and his wife went. Ultimately, he finds them by another table talking with the people there before they move on to the next one.

God, that must be exhausting.

 _Social expectations as hosts in an event_ , Eggsy suddenly remembers from one of Harry’s lessons. He chuckles, gracefully chewing on his food until Harry’s plate catches his eye.

Eggsy frowns.

There’s like two pieces of vegetables left, and the thing is, his plate doesn’t look dirty. Not that Eggsy ever expected it to be, but what he means is that when people pile food onto a plate to begin with, there’s a stain that marks the spot, depending where the food is placed or how much there is.

Harry’s plate is...barely greasy at all.

“Hey,” Eggsy softly calls his attention, accompanied by a thumb on the back of his hand. “Did you eat?”

“...Yes.”

There’s a beat of silence before Eggsy perks up, calling to his mum. “Hey, mum, what d'you eat?”

“D’you want me to make a list?” She snorts, eyes still on the dancefloor. “I’m embarrassed to remember just how much I ate.”

“What did Mr. Hart eat?”

She absently hums before answering. “He had a salad or some sort. He’s odd, him.”

Eggsy sends Harry a chiding look. One that Harry avoids. Eggsy pushes his plate closer--And yeah, the chance of Harry eating off his plate in public is very low. That just goes against the etiquette that Harry seems to care so much about.

When Harry slightly shakes his head, Eggsy isn’t really upset. Sometimes you win some, sometimes you lose some.

“Want me to get you real food?”

When Harry quietly clears his throat, Eggsy tilts his head towards him, eyes afar, low-key on the lookout, questioning him with a hum. “Hmm?”

“I...need to go…” Harry trails off, low in volume.

“Where?” Eggsy asks, just as quiet.

“Does it matter?”

Eggsy taps his fingers against Harry’s, unbothered by waiting.

Harry sighs. “The restroom.” He suddenly scoots his chair back, turning to Eggsy’s mum. “I’ll excuse myself to the loo for a moment.”

“Okay.” She shrugs, and Eggsy has no choice but to let go of Harry’s hand because he’s pulling away and standing. He can’t grab it without making a scene.

 

\--

 

Harry splashes his face with water, using a handkerchief to wipe it off.

He’s very uncertain about the reality he lives in. More than confusion is the fear of the unknown and the absolute wildcard that is Eggsy Unwin.

What the bloody hell is he playing at?

Harry should leave. He’s already spoken with Michelle, there’s no need to linger about. Of course it would be better if he ensures her safe return to the flat, but Eggsy’s _here_ and--

He looks good.

He looks--

Shaking his head, Harry can’t leave the possibility alone--Eggsy’s barely slept for three hours. Barely. Harry genuinely doubts that Eggsy’s completely in the right state of mind. If anyone looked closed enough, they’ll actually see a bit of red in Eggsy’s eyes. The fact that Eggsy’s made it all the way here from Harry’s house is somewhat worrying and impressive at the same time. That boy is going to be the death of him. Harry’s never felt so much anxiety in less than twenty-four hours, and that includes all his experiences with Kingsman.

Adding to that, the idea that Eggsy seems to _remember_ what happened between them going by the words he’s repeated to Michelle--

Harry palms at his suit-jacket for the pain relief pills. A few of them should calm him down.

Should. But Harry hates the thought of depending on them.

Steeling his resolve, Harry reminds himself that has been in worse situations without them. He’ll be fine.

He’ll be fine.

Those words, Harry had said them _before_ Eggsy consumed much of the alcohol that he did. Of course Eggsy would remember it.

As for the insistent hand-holding...that’s...simply part of the symptoms of Eggsy’s tactile deprivation.

It’s not a good excuse, and he hates that he _knows_ it.

Leaving the restroom, Harry’s apprehensions settle slightly when Eggsy is nowhere to be found in the area. Back in the Great Hall, Harry introduces himself to another table and asks if he may sit down. The point of social events is to mingle after all, to meet people that might assist in reaching one’s goals and ambitions in life.

Not that Harry has ever had any aside from Kingsman operations, but Harry can play the part. It’ll be interesting. Playing civilian for his own sake, not for a mission.

For a few minutes, Harry fools himself into being interested by their mediocre lives and stories. He does it rather well. And then he’s bored. Dreadfully so. And this woman named Agnes Thompson is sipping at her third glass of wine, somehow _precariously_ close to Harry despite the fact that she was originally a seat away.

Regardless, Harry manages to politely excuse himself once the intense sensation of discomfort gets too much. The hair on the back of his neck is still standing and he’d like some fresh air.

Perhaps leave and never come back.

Through the doors of the Grand Hall is a passage. One has to go through it to exit to the gardens on the right or the main corridor to the entrance hall on the left. As Harry walks through the main corridor, he slows in his steps, hearing murmurs through the wall. Picking up on the voices, Harry realises it’s Lestrade and some unknown man in the room he's approaching.

It’s second nature for Harry to be quiet and focus on the words spoken.

“These files--”

“Bloody hell, I can’t believe you called me down for this. It’s my ten-year anniversary--”

“I know, and I’m _sorry_ but--”

“Do you know what my wife would do if she found out?” Lestrade grits out, near hysterical. “She’d skin me and hang me out to dry-- _Skin_ me, I say--”

“Sir, this is about the startling pattern of murders related to gang wars in the last eight months--”

Harry should leave. This is none of his business. But Lestrade’s wife could turn the corner, and Harry should at least have the courtesy to warn him in the case that should happen.

“Ridley, I’m _sorry_ ,” Lestrade stresses. “But that’s not my... _area_ of expertise, I’m saddled with the cases I have to work on and I’m not even a detective yet--I have to pass my examinations, get approved for transfer to CID--”

“Three boys--one eighteen, one sixteen, one _fourteen_ \--were stabbed in the _heart_ all in a span of three months. One girl died the same way just this June. One boy was shot in the neck, one was shot in his sleep with a _submachine gun_ , with all due _respect_ \--”

“Shit--”

Harry hears papers upon papers and he knows that Lestrade’s a lost cause. He wonders how long his wife would put up with it until she finally leaves him.

Who is to blame for such a seemingly inevitable breakdown?

Would it truly be her fault for not suffering it anymore? Would it be his fault for doing his job and what he perceives is the right thing?

One’s life and attempt of interpersonal attainment is _second_ to the duties upon which benefits the entirety of the people. Keeping security and saving lives are the priority. Most people like to believe they grasp this concept, but when they are burdened with it, they fall apart.

That is why there are the chosen few who _can_.

Harry has always prided himself in being one of those privileged few.

And yet--

“I also have the handouts here related to the case you’re working on.”

Lestrade mutters under his breath and Harry has to concentrate harder. “--one?”

“Dr. Hasaan is here and he’s willing to give an impromptu announcement--”

“For hell’s sake, are you trying to get me killed? Remember where we are--”

“Exactly--There’s lots of target audience here, they need to know--”

“Yes, but _no_ \--” Lestrade insists, “Not here, not now--”

“Inspector, I need you to look me in the eye and tell me whether or not you’re close to putting him behind bars.”

There’s a tense silence.

“...That’s what I thought--Look, this is a difficult case, I know that. It’s not all on you, but we have a duty to warn people and keep them safe.”

Harry’s attention is divided as he thinks he picks up on high heels echoing from far back among all the noise.

Lestrade sighs. The other man, Ridley, seems to backtrack, “I’m sorry, I know I’m out of place. So this part, this is going to have to be your choice.”

That’s all Harry can hear because instinct guides him to take a few steps back and walk to where he came from, turning the corner.

He aims to intercept Gemma and stall her for a bit but he finds Agnes Thompson smiling at him, a new glass of wine in hand.

Harry blinks. “Yes?”

Thompson keeps on smiling as she saunters closer towards him. There’s that eerie sensation again, and the hair on the back of his neck rises once more. Which is absolutely ridiculous. This attractive woman in her late thirties barely weighs ten stone, Harry is absolutely certain. He can easily immobilise her if he has to.

It doesn’t explain why he feels the desperate need to step back for every step she takes towards him. He doesn’t, of course, because he shouldn’t fear her whatsoever but--

Thankfully, she stops a few feet away. “Would you care to dance, Mr. Hart?”

_No, I would not._

“I was just about to get some fresh air outside, Miss Thompson,” Harry evades politely.

“Oh, well, the gardens would be this way, then.” She tilts her head to the proper direction. “That’s even more wonderful of an idea, actually. It’s rather stuffy inside, isn’t it?” Thompson smiles cheerfully. “I’m sure we can find a space to dance outside--”

“Well, that’s--”

She quickly sips at her wine before resuming in walking towards him.

“Miss Thompson--”

“It’s just a dance, what’s the harm?” She coyly prompts.

It is at this very moment that Harry resolves to never attend a party outside of work. He sighs, ready to give in if that’s what it takes for her to leave him alone. He’s willing to step on her shoes if he has to.

“Well--”

 ** _“Harry Edmund Hart_** ,” A voice echoes through the passage over the noise of the ongoing event. It’s a neutral voice, _somehow_ tainted with steel.

Eggsy emerges from the shadows, an _innocent_ smile on his face.

Alarm bells ring throughout Harry’s head.

Thompson is clearly displeased, peering over at Eggsy like he’s a problem to be dealt with. “Young man, don’t be rude, I’m in a conversation with--”

“What’s rude is following a _defenseless_ man in the dark,” Eggsy dramatises, innocence on his face, amusement in his voice, all of it deceiving. “How could he possibly have any defence against such beauty?” Despite his apparent compliment, his sharp eyes stay on her. “Harry--Come.”

Harry ignores his better instincts and stays where he is, paralysed with something like fear. Thompson huffs. “While I’m _flattered_ , I make a point not to rob cradles--”

“ _Daddy_ ,” Eggsy demands, eyes on Harry at last, irked and long-suffering. All that’s missing is a petulant stomp of the feet. “Come.”

Flushed with something like shame and heartbeat pounding in his ears, Harry doesn’t have much of a choice. His feet are already moving towards him. “Alright, settle--”

Thompson sputters. “Wait--But--”

“Come, or I’m telling mum," Eggsy threatens, mulish, a hint of childish glee seeping though.

Thompson gawks at Harry. “But you wear no ring, I thought you weren’t married--”

“I’m--” Harry’s hand is grabbed by Eggsy. As he’s being pulled away, he senses Thompson still following.

Abruptly, Eggsy stops and turns around. Thompson bumps against him, and _somehow_ , the angle of the impact leads to the wine spilling onto her dress.

She gasps in absolute shock.

It’s something that Eggsy mirrors rather well, and Harry hates that he can _see_ through it. He _doesn’t_ want to see through it.

Why is he seeing through it?

“Oh my god,” Eggsy gasps, “I am _so_ sorry. I--”

“My genuine apologies,” Harry cuts in. “I’ll take care of it--”

Thompson perks up. “Yes, perhaps you can give me your contact details--”

“Daddy,” Eggsy snaps, “Wallet.”

Harry doesn’t need to be prompted, he already has it out and he’s putting five twenty banknotes in her hand. “For dry cleaning.”

He drags Eggsy away before they get into any more trouble, but Eggsy’s already complaining.

“Oi, that was too extra--Why does _she_ get a hundred quid?”

“I will give you two hundred if it gets you to behave,” Harry mutters under his breath.

“Really?”

“Why did you have to be so rude?” Harry agonises on the wrong thing and he knows it.

“I leave you alone for fifteen minutes-- _Fifteen_ minutes, and you’ve already gotten in trouble. I told you to wear a ring," Eggsy whispers furiously, “Besides, who the hell is she to wear white on a party like this? It’s Gemma’s thing. _Miss Thompson’s_ the one being rude.”

“This isn’t a wedding,” Harry grinds out, letting go of his hand once they enter the Great Hall. “Why did you follow me in the first place?”

“‘Cos--I don’t need two hundred quid. There’s a piano over there, come play with me.”

When he chances a look, Harry is faced with Eggsy’s earnest expression and Harry is absolutely _furious_ at himself for how weak he is. It doesn’t mean he doesn’t try to be rational. “Eggsy, there’s already music playing, we can’t make any disturbance.”

“We won’t be,” Eggsy insists. “The music’s already loud as hell. We’ll be super quiet. I’ve asked Gemma, she said it’s fine.” Eggsy doesn’t even wait for him, simply strolling off to the grand piano. Harry finds himself walking after him, watching as Eggsy opens the fall-board and folds the strip of cloth covering the piano keys.

Sitting down, Eggsy’s hands hover over them, but he pauses, looking up at Harry.

Harry remains standing beside the piano. “...What do you need?”

“You.”

Holding his breath, Harry averts his gaze to Eggsy’s hands.

“Harry, come sit with me.”

By quiet increments, Harry releases his breath and sits to Eggsy’s right, careful to keep a few inches of distance--along with his silence. He will not speak unless spoken to.

“You know how to play the piano, yeah?”

“...Yes.”

“Figured. With hands like that, Harry, it’d be a waste for you not to.”

Eggsy’s hands hover over the keys again.

Harry is fully aware that the Great Hall is a crowded mess of about a hundred people, drunk and merry with music and dancing.

He’s aware.

And yet.

When he looks at Eggsy’s hands, he feels as if they’re the only ones here, as if everything else is blocked out. Because everything else is insignificant. It only goes on to further prove how distorted his reality is. Because even though he feels that way, he senses the threat and the judgement, as if these people _know_ , as if they’re waiting for his downfall, waiting to see him give in and touch Eggsy the way he’s always wanted to.

It’s a paradox that keeps him on edge.

“What was it again?”

“Pardon?”

“F-A-C-E, innit? The notes, I mean.” Eggsy flips a page in the music book provided on the music rack.

“For the treble clef, yes.” Harry places his fingers on top of the keys, gentle. “The spaces in the staff.”

“Okay, but what about the lines?” Eggsy starts to play random notes, hesitant. “Was it--Huh...All-Good-Boys-Do-Fine?”

“...Every.”

“Hmm?” Eggsy tilts his head closer, like he’s having trouble hearing. Which is odd to Harry. As quiet as they speak in contrast to the cacophony in the background, Harry can hear their soft words clearly.

“ _Every_ -Good-Boy-Does-Fine,” Harry recites, eyes down on the keys, watching with impending doom as Eggsy’s right hand plays and plays each key, every step taking him closer to Harry’s left hand.

Eggsy stops on the key right next to Harry’s fifth digit.

For a moment, Harry thinks he’s safe.

“And me?” Eggsy asks.

“What?”

“Am I doing fine?” Eggsy’s pinky finger folds, resurfacing under Harry’s hand and hooking around Harry’s.

It’s involuntary, the way Harry’s little finger gives a slight pressure back and he’s utterly _weak._ His skin prickles with a wave of anxiety and Harry fears that this whole day has been a recurring nightmare, neverending. Because that’s what it feels like. This day never seems to end. It’s horrible and it’s maddening and the worst part is that he might not wish to wake up.

It’s also involuntary, the _hiss_ that leaves Harry’s mouth. “You’re doing _terribly_.”

Eggsy’s response is mild. “Oh yeah? Am I gonna get punished for that?”

“You ask as if you’re willing to take it.”

There’s a soft chuckle. “I’m willing to take it," Eggsy begins simply-- _happily_. “Whatever you want me to take--Whatever you say, Harry.”

The unwitting rush of heat is _senseless_. Harry breaks his own promise to himself, speaking out of turn for the sake of hasty distraction. “My middle name isn’t Edmund--What ever gave you that idea?”

“Well, it’s not like you ever tell me much about yourself, do you?”

Harry feels Eggsy shrug against him.

How did he ever get that close? How did Harry not notice?

As Harry quietly panics, Eggsy continues on, “I don’t even know how old you are, I don’t know when your birthday is, I don’t know about your family.”

Harry’s stomach sinks. “I know.”

Eggsy shrugs again. “Harry Edmund Hart--It has a nice ring to it though, doesn’t it?”

“It’s not real.”

“Then I guess I’ll just have to keep guessing. As I’ve said, I don’t know much about you. I’ll just have to keep guessing until I get it right--And that’s the beauty of you, isn’t it?” Eggsy prompts, and Harry feels his gaze.

Harry doesn’t want to look.

He doesn’t.

But he looks. It’s not a choice. It’s not.

“That’s the beauty of you,” Eggsy says again, meeting his eyes. “With you, the possibilities are endless.” Eggsy’s breath hitches and Harry _loses_ his, and he’s terribly overwhelmed that he’s drowning, drowning, _drowning--_

Eggsy Unwin is the sea and he is _terrifying._

Harry pulls his hand away, trying to get his breath back. He stands, moving forward and never looking back.

 

 

°

 

 

Eggsy knows he should be embarrassed of the shit he’s said.

But he isn't.

It’s true, isn’t it? As embarrassingly _gay_ as those words were, he meant it. And yeah, he _might_ just not be _entirely_ sober, but he stands by it.

Harry’s gone back to sit beside Eggsy's mum again, like that’ll deter Eggsy.

Does that count as a rejection?

 _No_ , Eggsy decides. Harry just needs a bit of time to process, that’s all.

Eggsy will keep pushing, no doubt about it. But in between should be a break of sorts, to let Harry really think about things, to let him realise how serious Eggsy is and show that he’s not _too_ needy.

Ten years from now, Eggsy would like to be able to call himself the Repressed-Wanker Whisperer. It’s a title he’d like to earn.

Honestly, he can play the waiting game if that’s what it takes.

It’s a bit like playing hard to get. Eggsy can make it fun.

Taking a tall glass of water, he takes his time walking over to the table but he doesn't sit back beside Harry. He passes that spot and walks nearly to the opposite side. Harry’s busy talking to his mum, after all. He tries not to overthink that part. If the words he overhears every now and then means something, Harry’s trying to encourage her to dance with someone.

“Is this seat taken?" Eggsy asks to the older lady on his left. There’s a free seat right next to this one too but he doesn’t want to offend her or anything by skipping it.

“Oh, no, young man. Please, sit.”

Eggsy does, smiling politely. It’s not like she’s _Miss Thompson_. Bloody hell, he probably should never have the urge to break a wine glass against someone’s face. Eggsy scares himself sometimes.

“Young man," The lady beside him tries to get his attention.

“Call me Gary, please," Eggsy huffs. She seems rather charmed by it.

“Are you really single?" She asks, curious, and Eggsy manages to keep his expression unchanged. This lady is practically half past sixty and he doesn't know what the fuck to do.

“Err, well--”

“I’m asking because I have a granddaughter who you might like--”

Eggsy’s mouth is open, but he can’t say a thing. Suddenly there are hands on his shoulders, and he looks down to elegantly manicured fingers.

“Tsk, tsk, Beatrice,” Gemma tuts, “I had my eye on him for my niece, your granddaughter’s gonna have to wait, my niece is right outside in the gardens--Is that alright, Michelle?”

“By all means," His mum allows humorously from across the table.

“Err,” Eggsy nervously begins, keeping his eyes on the flower vase. He stalls by sipping slow at his water. “Well, that’s--”

The women suddenly break out into laughter. “Relax, Gary.” Gemma gives a little massage on his shoulders to prove a point. “How are you finding the party? Is it as _drab_ as you thought it would be?”

He huffs. “It’s great! Who said I thought it’d be drab?”

“Well, you were late after all, maybe you had second thoughts--Presuming the no-girlfriend excuse holds up--”

“Oi--” Eggsy scoffs, reminded of his issues. “You wanna know _why_ I was late?” He forces himself to look at anything but Harry. “Someone left a mess for me to clean up--”

“Ooo, a _mess_ ,” Gemma teases. Beatrice snorts in the background, along with Eggsy’s mum.

“Not--Oh my god--” Eggsy grouses. “I was over at a friend’s, alright?”

“ _Mhm_ ," His mum interjects. "A ‘friend’.”

Christ. They’re all ganging up on him.

“Yeah, and _he_ has this clock that gets messed up the longer you leave it alone, and I just noticed that it was like two hours past the time it _should_ be,” Eggsy rattles off, genuinely annoyed at the memory. “And so I was like, you know--and I _couldn’t_ leave it alone for some reason, so I had to fix it. ‘Cos _someone_ can’t be bothered apparently and--Pfft,” Eggsy finishes with an eyeroll, ignoring a particular someone’s reproaching gaze on him.

Harry refrains from muttering under his breath. He has plenty of things to worry about than a bloody clock. His job takes him all over the world, he saves lives, he _takes_ lives, and he has piles and piles of paperwork to go over. In addition to that, he has an abundance of problems that he’s never encountered before, what with falling for a fifteen year old and dealing with the issues that come with it for fuck’s sake. So _no_ , Harry doesn’t have the bloody time to--

“Sounds like my husband,” Gemma mutters under her breath. People around them laugh.

Eggsy nods in absolute agreement. “You’re telling me,” He mutters, but he takes advantage of the situation and tries to change the subject. “Speaking of which, where is he?” Eggsy looks around, frowning.

He finally cranes his neck up to look at Gemma in question. Her red lips are pursed in consternation and she’s slightly squinting her eyes across the room like she’s trying to get a sense of where Lestrade is and--

Oh.

She does that too.

Gemma shrugs and frowns. “Who knows with him?” She does a double-take at Eggsy. “Isn’t it stuffy inside?”

“...Yeah?” Eggsy allows, slow to catch on. She gestures to her own neck and Eggsy palms at his scarf. “Oh, right,” He huffs, hand pulling at the scarf self-consciously. Somehow he didn't realise that was an option.

“Silly,” Gemma teases good-naturedly, turning to Harry and Eggsy’s mum. “Isn’t he?”

Harry blinks, letting himself objectively take in Eggsy’s appearance. Of course Eggsy wouldn’t know how to put on a scarf properly in accordance with a suit. Harry hasn’t taught him yet. The scarf is meant to be flat, partly hidden under the suit jacket and--

Harry’s brain screeches to a halt, realising it far too late.

 _Don’t_ \--

“Whew.” Eggsy finally unravels his scarf, huffing in exasperation. “That gave me more trouble than it should’ve," He attempts for humour, but despite the noise of the party, the people around him are starting to quiet down.

There’s a sudden whistle from that Anderson guy and Eggsy’s just _this_ close in telling him to shut up, but Beatrice crows, “Single, my arse.”

“What,” Eggsy utters, the weight of people’s stares making him even more self-conscious. His mum is practically gawking.

Lestrade is coming up behind Gemma, brows furrowed. “What did I miss?” He looks around, gaze falling on Eggsy. “Shit. Did you get mauled? You want to file a report?”

It takes forever for Eggsy to fucking realise--His neck. Harry probably left _marks_. Shit. It’s only been like a few hours so it shouldn’t even _show_ but he hastily tries to put the scarf back on anyway, flushed not only with overwhelming embarrassment but the stupid arousal that comes with remembering the sensations.

Anderson lets out a loud hysterical laugh. “If you weren’t single, you _should_ be--Gary, is it? Gary, my _lad--_ ” He laughs again. “--That is one possessive bird. You gotta drop them pronto. Not even people my age would put up with that, honestly--”

Harry keeps his eyes on his plate. The guilt and revulsion are clashing with irrational pride and _heat_. He wants to leave at once, but he has enough sanity left to know that would simply give rise to suspicion.

“ _Well_ ,” Eggsy begins, and it’s very subtle, but Harry can pick up a bit of defiance in his tone despite his own wishes, “Maybe I’m into that, _Anderson--_ Anderson, _is it_?--Maybe you should try it out sometime--”

Lestrade raises a hand. “I’d rather not get that mental image, please.” Another laugh rings out around the table. “Everyone doing alright, I take it?”

“I was just about to ask that,” Gemma sniffs. “Gary here was about to tell me how much he enjoys it all, weren’t you?”

“Yeah!” Eggsy’s quick to agree and change the subject. “Absolutely. S’nice, fancy, _deep_ \--”

Surprisingly, Eggsy’s mum interrupts. “D’you really like it?”

Eggsy tries to not be unnerved at the scrutiny. “...Yeah?”

“How much?” She squints.

“Err…”

“D’you see yourself getting married here?” She questions abruptly, and Eggsy is so startled he _stutters_.

“Do I--I mean--” He guffaws in absolute disbelief as the people around them crow, the nosy fucks. In desperation, it’s involuntary how his gaze seeks out Harry when he utters the words. “Do I see myself getting married here?”

It’s good that Harry averts his eyes to stare at the cutlery because Eggsy is fucking _mortified_ at himself.

Slowly sipping at his water does no good, because it only gets worse as his mum continues, clicking her tongue. “I can’t believe you just looked at him like he can give you all the answers." She blindly pats Harry on the shoulder. “Unless you’re asking if he can walk you down the aisle, then--Wait, do father-figures walk grooms down the aisle or is that just for the brides?”

“Mum, oh my god," Eggsy groans in helpless shame.

“Ah, well,” She relents, “Suppose he can just stay and stand by your side during the wedding. That’s a thing, isn’t it? Or is that just for the Best Man?”

“Actually," Beatrice readily interrupts, “The Best Mans were originally chosen to be the bride and groom’s protector in case of any trouble during the wedding, so most of them were chosen for their swordsmanship--I’m a historian _and_ a wedding planner, bear with me--So unless you’ve got some talent in that area, Hart, you might have to fight Gary’s friends here to be his Best Man--”

Despite the absolute shame he’s drowning in, Eggsy can’t help but blurt out in indignance, “He doesn’t have to fight for anything, he _is_ the best man, hands down.”

His mum sighs, nudging at Harry. “That’s practically a ‘yes’, innit, Hart? With how mysterious he is with that bird of his, I’m betting it’s more serious than he’ll admit--I really do gotta start saving up for the wedding at this point.”

Over the laughter and murmurs of conversations, Eggsy protests in fits and stops. “I--no--you having too much wine, that's what.”

Harry mutters under his breath, inaudible, and Eggsy’s mum tilts her head to hear better.

“What?" She questions.

“University first," Harry mutters again.

Eggsy gapes at their...conspiratory _everything_ , especially when his mum snaps her fingers and points at Harry.

“Exactly! Uni first--" She turns to Eggsy. “You hear that? Uni _first_ **.** ”

Eggsy hides his face behind his hands. “Christ.”

“Aww," Gemma croons. “You three are so cute.”

Lestrade scoffs. “What did I tell you?”

“Gary’s scarf even matches Harry’s tie!" Gemma gasps in sudden realisation.

Eggsy squints in incomprehension, looking down at the scarf and back to Harry’s tie. “What.”

“Aww," More people croon along, and one of the men in their table sniffs, “Wish my son still idolised me like that.”

Eggsy doesn’t know whether to be furious or ashamed. This is a fucking mess. He and Harry both have matching tiny polka dot patterns. He wants to die.

“Oi,” Eggsy barks, turning to Lestrade and baring his teeth in a parody of a sharp smile. “Speaking of cute shit, what’s with my invitation name?”

Lestrade chortles despite looking a bit chagrined. “I was wondering when you were going to ask.”

“You think that’s funny, do you?" Eggsy prompts, testy.

“Yeah, actually," Lestrade admits, slightly lowering his voice like that does enough to deter the nosy fucks seated at the table. “Though it was mainly to move things along, if you know what I mean.”

It takes a split longer than it should for it to click in Eggsy’s head.

Fucking Lestrade thought it was a good idea to give his mum and Harry a _preview_ of the future like some fucking wingman. The whole thing that Eggsy once thought was pure is now so absolutely _atrocious_ that he just glares at Lestrade with disgust, mouth hanging open.

Eggsy’s mum interrupts his dramatic moment, frowning. “What’s wrong with your invitation name?”

 _She hasn’t seen it_ , It occurs to Eggsy. He catches sight of Harry looking like he wants to shift in his seat.

His mum tries again, turning to Harry this time in eager curiosity like she’s missing a joke. “Hart, you signed us in, what’s wrong with his name?”

“It’s--"

“Gary Unwin-Hart," Eggsy announces grandly, shifting tactics. “It’s a great name."

Eggsy relishes that for all of Harry’s composure, he startles, eyes meeting his.

Gemma gasps and Lestrade whistles. “See? Then what’s the problem?”

His mum chokes on a strawberry. She turns just as red. “Lestrade, what the bloody hell--”

Partly aiming to distract them and partly curious, Eggsy scrunches his nose, questioning, “But would you still keep the Unwin name though? I mean, if you got remarried--" This probably isn't the time and place to talk about this, but Eggsy takes the chance. It’s a _test_ of sorts. Or maybe he’s just caring less and less as the night goes on. “Wouldn’t you go back to your maiden name and _then_ hyphenate?" Eggsy tilts his head, wondering out loud. “But would you _really_ hyphenate? Can’t it be just Gary Hart?”

As Eggsy's mum stutters, Harry chooses to sip at his champagne, fingers subtly gripping at the stem. Eggsy picks up on it with a brief glance.

A part of Eggsy realises that he might be a little cruel to his mum but--This is just important, he has to know. Still, he tries to dial it down. “I mean, whatever, I like Gary Unwin-Hart. I just wanted to know my options.”

Lestrade frowns. “You do know you can keep your own last name? You don't have to change it alongside your mum’s just because--"

“Gary Unwin-Hart," Eggsy announces forcefully, head held high as he narrows his eyes, all vindication mixed with the pride of knowing something no one else does. “You ain’t gonna be laughing in ten years.”

Gradually looking unsettled, Lestrade squints, speaking slow. “Why does that sound like a threat?”

“Wait--" Beatrice raises a hand. Eggsy raises an eyebrow and she slowly points at Harry and Eggsy’s mum. “They’re not married?”

Eggsy tries not to be bitter as he snorts. “You couldn’t tell, right?”

Harry speaks at last, tone very _very_ neutral. “I’m not wearing a ring.”

Beatrice gasps. “Some of the new modern types do that though! Discretion is the new flair--" She turns back to Eggsy. “So that’s not your father?”

“ _Well_ ," Eggsy stalls for dramatic effect, but he can't really go for _‘no, but he’s my daddy’_ just yet. He’s not _that_ fucking mental. Plus, he likes to think he’s sober. Mostly. “No. My dad died in the line of duty." He feels the need to give exposition so the nosy fucks in their table can hear and not judge his mum. Or Harry for that matter. “Mr. Hart here was one of his officers. He likes to come around every now and then to make sure we’re alive and alright.”

There’s a beat of somber silence and Eggsy feels bad that he might’ve just killed the festivities, but Gemma perks up, lightly squeezing Eggsy’s shoulder to get his attention.

“There’s always the mixing!" Gemma suggests excitedly, looking to Eggsy's mum who’s just eating in self-defence at this point.

Eggsy squints. “The mixing?”

“You know," Gemma prods at him. “Like Brangelina.”

The table is alive once more, both with cheering and protest.

Lestrade groans. “Christ, no. These Hollywood types, honestly. Obnoxious.”

Eggsy fades them all out, concentrating with what his brain allows. “...Un..art?”

His shoulders hunch once he realises how fucking dumb that sounds. No one seems to have caught what he’s said, but across the table Harry actually hides his face with a hand.

Eggsy scowls before he brightens at the sudden revelation:

“Hartwin!" He helplessly beams, actually smacking the table. “Gary Hartwin!” His leg extends under the table, hoping to whatever higher power he prods the right foot. “Harry Hartw--" He stops, realising how fucking stupid that is.

 _Harry Hartwin_ sounds so fucking ridiculous, he’s already getting second-embarrassment at the thought.

From the neutral expression on Harry’s face, he clearly feels the same. It’s that kind of unreadable stoicism that simply implies Eggsy’s in _so_ much trouble.

Fucking _yes_.

 _Yesyesyesyes_.

Eggsy wishes he could take out his fucking massive camera and snap a photo of that expression, but all he can do right now is manage not to preen and keep his head held high. “Unwin-Hart it is, then.”

It’s subtle, the way Harry’s jaw clenches. Before he’s about to speak, Eggsy’s mum puts a hand out.

“First of all, no," She announces, “Second-- _no_.”

Harry nods sagely in absolute agreement. “Exactly.”

As pleased as Eggsy is with their reactions, he has to play his part, exaggeratedly sullen. “Why?”

“‘Cos nobody ain’t got time for that," His mum says before elbowing Harry. “Ain’t that right, Hart?”

“Absolutely. Priorities must be in order.”

Gemma scoffs, bewildered. “What priorities?"

Eggsy cuts in, hoping the bitterness doesn’t show. “He’s a workaholic.”

Gemma’s eyes narrow, practically mirroring Eggsy. “I see. _Well_ \--" She’s still polite and friendly, but there’s something about the way her tone goes _overly_ sweet. “Don’t you worry, Michelle, I’ve got you--Let me introduce you to some proper men who’ll give you the time that you deserve. Come,” She beckons in excitement.

Lestrade protest weakly, “Hang on, just because Hart’s into his work doesn’t mean he’s _entirely_ terrible--”

“Oi," Eggsy barks, “Who said anything about terrible?” He tries to keep his hackles down. “You never know who’s willing to suffer him. The truth is out there--Maybe closer than you think.”

“Stop making your mother uncomfortable,” Harry admonishes, lips pursed. “Why don’t you be a gentleman and dance with her?”

Eggsy laughs. “Your confidence in me is great, really, it is--But she’s got a fifteen quid pedicure, Mr. Hart, I ain’t risking that.” He sits up straight just to relax, trying to embody the concept of innocence. “ _You_ , on the other hand, it’d be an absolute _pleasure_ for me to step on your shiny shoes.” People around the table snort at that, and Eggsy can’t help the way the corner of his mouth twitches. “Maybe a scuff here and there.”

Unamused, Harry keeps at his stoicism. “I politely decline, thank you.”

“We’ll see about that.” Eggsy narrows his eyes, tamping down a smile. It’s strange, the way he feels. It feels like he can get whatever he wants. It’s not exactly the type of cockiness that has got him through the years, no, it’s something like _certainty_.

It feels like power.

“Sorry to interrupt," A new voice cuts in, and Eggsy doesn’t even look up. “Uncle Greg, you know that thing you asked of me--”

When Eggsy _does_ look up it’s to one of the most prettiest girls he’s ever [seen](http://i.imgur.com/JJrEzkg.jpg). He feels his mouth hanging open. Vaguely, he hears chuckles in the background, but he can’t even look away.

Gemma huffs. “And what’s this thing he’s asked of you?”

The girl only raises an eyebrow and turns to Lestrade. “In five minutes or so. You might want to get a move on.”

Lestrade breathes like he’s about to give birth. “Okay. Alright, Rose, cheers.”

“Rose?” Eggsy blurts out, blindly pawing at Gemma’s hands on his shoulders at the sudden memory of the little girl earlier in the night. “She the niece you were on about?”

There’s a snort but Gemma’s hands are squeezing at his shoulders again. “Yes, Gary. This is my niece, Rose. Rose, Gary--Why don’t you sit here, Rose--” Gemma pats at the empty seat to Eggsy’s right, so when Rose actually humours them and sits, she’s between Eggsy and his mum.

“Hello,” She says, polite but with a charisma of a thousand suns.

When Eggsy shakes her hand, it’s so fucking _soft_. It’s fucking unbelievable.

She smells nice too. Like the cliché flowers and shit. The fuck?

“Hello,” Eggsy finds himself uttering.

Rose smiles again, humorously glancing down at their join hands. “Yes. As you’ve said the first time.”

Did he?

Christ, he doesn’t even fucking remember.

Gemma snorts, patting at Eggsy’s shoulders. “You two are going to get along just fine.”

Lestrade chortles. “Let’s hope so. You kids behave--I, for one, would like to whisk my wife away to look over the dessert prep over there.”

“Initiative?” Gemma gasps with a hint of mockery. “ _Suspicious_ \--But I’ll take it.” She beams and lets him lead her off. Eggsy rolls his eyes, hoping ‘dessert’ isn’t a euphemism.

Instead, he focuses on Rose.

Now, Eggsy has an idea what this might look like to everyone else. And so what? Harry’s being a stubborn fuck anyway, so why not have fun? He can’t dote on Harry all night long, people are bound to get suspicious. 

Besides, Harry’s clearly doing his best to ignore Eggsy. So why not ignore him right back?

He’s gonna be so caught off-guard when Eggsy pounces.

Fuck yeah.

Fuck him.

This is a great opportunity.

“Do you have a sister named Jasmine, Rose? Rose--Rose in red,” He smoothly babbles like a bloody fucking idiot. Going from the way his mum facepalms in his peripherals, he’s sounding like a wanker. “God, that’s terrible, I’m sorry. I’m--I’ve been on the wine, I think,” He lies. Technically not. A few hours ago, yeah. With a bit of fucking whisky shots on the side.

Fuck.

Come to think of it, the queasiness and the migraine’s steadily building up bit by bit the longer he stays awake.

“Don’t worry about it,” She waves him off, carefree and amused. It’s bizarre how she sounds genuine. “It’s not the first ‘Rose-red’ joke I’ve heard tonight. But Jasmine is my sister, yes. And it seems she was right about the pretty cute boy she met lounging about the entrance hall.”

The casual way she says it is probably the reason why it takes him a few seconds to fully realise what’s been said, but when he does, he makes a grab for his almost forgotten tall glass of water and sips, trying to wash away the flush. It’s not that he’s not used to flirting, it’s just--She says it like she means it and she’s caught him off-guard. He’s not in the best state too, being hungover as he is.

When he finally gets his cool back, Eggsy retaliates smoothly, “She wasn’t wrong about her sister either."

“Oh gosh,” She chuckles with a hint of worry. “Do I even want to know what she said?”

“All good things, I promise." Despite his will to sound like he’s flirting, he can’t help but belatedly want to explain the situation with Jasmine. Honestly, the implications of waiting around where the ladies toilets are is mortifying. And that’s not even considering that Jasmine’s like, seven. Gross. “Also, I wasn't being a creep lounging about, I was actually lost--”

Rose chuckles. “It’s fine, truly.”

‘Truly’? Who says ‘truly’ in a casual conversation?

Well, Harry would, but that’s different--And Cavendish too. They’re, like, fifty. Rose is...Eggsy’s age.

Subtly taking her in again, he considers that maybe her elaborate fancy vintage everything isn’t just a costume for the night. It’s very detailed, if anything. There’s effort in it. Quality. She might be on the posh side of life.

Hell, Gemma’s whole side of the family might be. He genuinely doubts Lestrade could afford all of this.

Eggsy doesn't even realise he’s gone on for a bit too long without speaking, because his mum butts in and starts a conversation. “Where do you go to school, Rose?”

“Oh, I go to Henrietta Barnett," Rose reveals happily. Surprisingly enough to Eggsy, there’s no snobbish pride to it.

Probably not posh then.

Before he can even let his guard down and breathe easy, his mum gasps in late realisation. “Henrietta Barnett? _The_ Henrietta Barnett? The one in--Where is it, is it--Hampstead Garden S--”

“Suburb, yes," Rose finishes for her, oddly mirroring Eggsy’s mum’s excitement. “You know it?”

“Do _I_ know it?" She cries out, “Do I--Oh my god.”

At a loss, Eggsy stares at her oddly. He genuinely doesn't know what emotion that is--Is she gonna cry, is she gonna laugh?

Is he going to be embarrassed in front of all these people and this really pretty girl?

A part of him chimes in and puts Harry on the list of people he should care about being embarrassed in front of at this very moment, but it’s a thought he waves off. Because being embarrassed in front of Harry isn’t exactly life-changing as much at it feels like it.

How many times of absolute embarrassment has he been through with Harry? And Harry’s still here, isn't he?

Harry’s forever; Interesting attractive people Eggsy meets inbetween are, well, not.

Eggsy frowns at his mum. “What do _you_ know about this school?”

His mum looks genuinely psyched up to tell a story and she sips at her wine before pointing at him. “Okay, so, when I was pregnant with you--" She halts and absently smacks at Harry’s shoulder with the back of her hand. “Did I tell you this story? Would you even remember?”

“With or without context, the likely answer is no," Harry answers politely. “Either way, my memory’s been deteriorating as of late.”

“You’re not _that_ old." She smacks him again before clearly psyching herself back up. “When I was pregnant with him, right, I--" She turns to Rose and points at Eggsy. “Him. That’s my son--God, I haven't even introduced myself, I’m Michelle, I’m sorry--”

“That’s alright," Rose assures her with a smile, genuine and interested. Eggsy appreciates that so much, it lessens the shame. That’ll be the last glass of alcohol his mum’s drinking tonight, Eggsy swears it.

His mum clears her throat. “So, I was pregnant with you--" She points at Eggsy, like there’s any fucking doubt. “I didn’t know if you were gonna be a girl or a boy. Like, I _felt_ you were gonna be a boy, but then the fortune-teller said otherwise!” The people remaining at their table murmur and tune in on their conversation. Christ. “And so I started making some plans about where you were gonna go to school and stuff. Henrietta Barnett was the top choice. It’s an all-girls state school, one of the best--”

Eggsy raises his hands to stop her. “Okay, woah, woah, wait--Back up.” His brows furrow in distress and incomprehension. “Fortune-teller? How--What-- _Why_ \--”

“There were these very rare moments where your dad and I would both have a day off, right? Even _rarer_ if it was on the same day. One time, we took the train and went to this circus carnival place. Couldn't go on much rides, obviously, massive as I was, but your dad was a cheeky bugger and went on rides without me anyway, the precious loon." She absently smacks at Harry’s shoulder again as she shakes her head, eyes narrowed, but there’s a soft smile on her face and Eggsy has to look away.

Rose, for all her poise and her grace, shifts in her seat. “He left you alone? That’s not right.”

Eggsy’s mum waves her off. “To be fair, we were young. I could handle myself, it was fine.”

“Hmm," Rose hums, non-committal, but Eggsy realises she’s looking at Harry like he’s committed the most atrocious crime and--

“Oh my g--" Eggsy manages to blurt before turning to Rose to quietly whisper in her ear and explain that Harry’s not his dad and that he’s an absolute gentleman who wouldn’t leave pregnant women in crowded carnivals like that.

“Oh," Rose utters in understanding, slightly turning towards him, apologetic in her misconception.

Eggsy belatedly realises there’s only inches of space between their faces.

“Oi," Eggsy’s mum calls them out, “It’s barely been three minutes since you’ve met and you’re all cozy--Look at you," She croons before pointing a forkful of cantaloupe at them. “Pay attention--So your da went on a roller coaster, the numpty. Being left alone, of course I got bored, right, who wouldn't be? So I went off, just to show him, right? I wanted to see if he’d panic or something when he didn't see me after--and I just wanted to sit without too much noise and bother, really.” She chews at her fruit, squinting in the distance, very mysterious all of a sudden. “I ended up in this tent.”

From Eggsy’s left, Beatrice crows in anticipation. “And then?”

“Well, I felt sorta bad for just taking up space," She admits. “So I paid for one reading.”

Clearly intrigued, Rose asks, “What kind of reading was it?”

Eggsy can only roll his eyes in disbelief at the fact that his mum paid _actual_ money just because she felt bad. “More importantly, how much was it?”

His mum gives him a look. “Base price. Seven quid or something--And I don’t know what reading it was, exactly, cards and crystal balls were involved. I just wanted to know if my baby was gonna be a girl or a boy.”

Christ. Eggsy squints, mind automatically going through what groceries he could buy with seven quid. It was probably worth more back in the day too.

“Tsk. Couldn’t you just have waited till I popped out? Honestly--”

“Oi, you’ll know this dilemma when you have a child yourself, you dolt. The amount of baby names out there, plus--”

“The clothes to be prepared and the colours!” Beatrice interjects in total agreement.

Eggsy scrunches his nose. “What colours? How difficult is it? Green, white, blue--”

“Blue is for boys," Beatrice says, looks at him oddly, and Eggsy does his best to remain calm and not call Roxy just to put her on loudspeaker.

“Beatrice,” Eggsy begins, dry, “You’re telling me that in all your wedding planning, no girl ever wanted blue as a theme?”

There’s a beat of silence.

“Well, yes, but---”

“Case solved." Eggsy beams amiably instead of smiling sharply. “Cheers." He turns back to his mum. “Honestly, I was a blob of flesh, I wouldn't have given a rats arse.”

She frowns. “You make it sound easy. But it wasn’t. I wanted to have an idea, you know? Of what to expect. It’s just different. You’ll know when you get there.”

Eggsy tries not to react too much at that. He honestly can't see a child in his future, like, what even--

He finds himself pausing.

Because...did he ever see Harry?

There’s that instinctual urge to look at Harry to see his reaction, which is _stupid_ for many reasons, but he manages to curb it, glancing at Rose instead. She’s been politely listening more than actually talking, but there’s a genuine interest in her body language that Eggsy really needs to work on perfecting.

The way she is would probably be what Harry would like. Prim, proper, polite, but she doesn't seem boring. There’s something that draws people in, making them want to know more.

Maybe if Eggsy practices enough, he can be all that by the time he gets to uni.

He can fool everybody.

“So the fortune-teller just told you it was going to be a girl?” Beatrice prompts.

“No,” She huffs, scrunching her nose. “I don’t know if it was ‘cos I only payed the base price and didn’t ‘donate’ extra, but she was very vague. She wouldn’t even give me pronouns.”

Eggsy squints in confusion. “So why'd you think she meant I was gonna be a girl then?”

“‘Cos,” His mum whines, “She was very mysterious, right? And she made me pick all these cards and rattled on about each of them and I just assumed.”

“Assumed what? What did she say?”

“Well, it was--” She briefly puts a hand to her mouth like she’s steeling herself. “You know, the usual gloom and doom; ‘ _Oh, there will be rough times ahead for your child_ , _endless suffering is inescapable,_ ’ and on and on, but at least she seemed genuinely sad about it.” She absently smacks Harry’s shoulder again. “Can you believe that, Hart? She made it sound like it was some sort of curse--”

“Everyone suffers in some way,” Harry allows. “But it shouldn’t be endless. There should be no such thing. There shouldn’t be.”

“Exactly,” She agrees readily, nodding.

Eggsy’s briefly stuck on the determination on Harry’s expression before he manages to tear his gaze away to concentrate on his mum’s continued story.

“Either way, I was gonna leave but she started to backtrack. Said something like, ‘ _Worry not, they will be strong and conquer all the odds,_ ’ or whatnot.” She squints, clearly concentrating hard. “I even think one of them was, ‘ _They will step on the soil of many countries and change the world_.’” His mum manages to hold onto the dramatic composure for a second before she snorts.

“ _Oi_ , while I’m flattered,” Eggsy cuts in, “Surely you realised she was saying vague and general things on purpose? That’s how they work, mum. And what does this have to do with your assumption?”

“ _Well_ , ‘cos she said these exact words alright--I remember _these_ out of _all_ of the things she said--” His mum takes a significant breath. “ _'Their fate is intertwined with an ambivalent man_ _whose love is tragic and true_ ,’” She reveals mystically, and murmurs arise around the table like it’s a fucking campfire story. “And _I_ thought right away: Oh no, my poor daughter, stuck with some flawed man for the rest of her sad life--But then again--”

“Oi, come on, now,” Eggsy finds himself interrupting, huffing nervously, tamping down the ridiculous wave of defensive _fervor_ that runs through him. “Everyone’s flawed, mum, let’s be honest.”

“True,” She allows, nose slightly scrunched. “I still don’t know what ‘ambivalent’ means though, I keep forgetting to look it up. It just sounds bad, the way she said it. What _does_ it mean?” She smacks Harry’s shoulder, and she doesn’t seem notice the slight change in him, the subtle stillness. “Come on, you’re good with words.”

 _No one_ should probably notice the slight change in Harry’s behaviour.

But Eggsy does.

And he can’t explain how he feels like sweating.

Because it’s not like it’s true. It’s not like he believes in some fortune-teller shit.

It’s not like Harry loves him.

Not like that.

Not yet.

Rose politely clears her throat. “Ambivalent,” She says, venturing. “It’s not necessarily bad. It depends on what context. It generally means ‘conflicting’. Like, you know, I’m ambivalent about something, whether it be an issue or an item or a person. It just means I’m not sure about it. Sometimes I like it, sometimes I don’t? I can’t fully make up my mind about it.”

Eggsy’s mum stares. “Are you saying my daughter was meant for a man with commitment issues?”

Managing not to curl up and die, Eggsy bursts out, “You don’t have a daughter!”

“Well, obviously not,” She sighs in relief. “Thank god, I originally assumed you were gonna end up with some violent man and be tampered with or something.”

Eggsy gawks at the wording. _‘Tampered’_ with.

Hiding his face behind his hands, Eggsy groans. “Oh my god.”

It takes a while to gain composure for some reason, but when he does, the conversation has moved on. He peeks over at Rose and mouths ‘Sorry’ out of shame.

She seems partly sympathetic and partly amused. Rose tilts her head closer and tries to assure him, “It’s all fine.” She briefly glances at the clock. ”Besides, nothing could possibly be more embarrassing than what Greg’ll do.”

“What.” Eggsy blinks, head turning to search for Lestrade and his wife. “What’ll he do?”

As if on cue, there's a microphone screech and the music lowers down in volume. If that wasn’t enough, the DJ taps on it three times.

“Everyone, if I can just get your attention,” The DJ announces. The crowd eventually settles, turning towards where he is. “This is a song specifically requested by the main man of the event--”

There’s murmurs and excitement on the rise as the DJ one-handedly types on his laptop. The lighting changes and a spotlight becomes the main focus. “Finn, if you can find the lovely couple for us…”

The spotlight moves around before it settles on Lestrade and his wife by the buffet table. Gemma looks genuinely surprised, if not suspicious. Lestrade just looks like he’s trying to die with dignity and failing. Nevertheless, he puts a hand out in offering. When she takes it, he slowly leads her to the dancefloor and the crowd starts to cheer as the spotlight follows them.

The DJ speaks again, staring at a small piece of paper. “Apparently, this song was chosen because: ‘It’s embarrassing for me, so my wife will love it’.

The crowd laughs at that and even Eggsy snorts. The DJ raises three fingers, slowly counting down before a song [begins](https://drive.google.com/file/d/0B6aF7_1BmgYpWDQwaWtubVEyTTA/view?usp=sharing).

 _Fuck_ \--

Eggsy gasps the _first_ second in. Because while he doesn’t know the title of that song, he _knows_ it. He fucking knows it and he knows for a fact that the song _is_ fucking embarrassing as _hell_.

Sure enough, the saxophone is playing on and the crowd goes fucking _wild_ with crowing, cheering, and hysterical laughter.

Even his mum chokes. “Oh my god.”

Eggsy genuinely worries for her health but Harry’s got it sorted, pushing her glass of water closer. Even as she drinks, she’s pointing at Lestrade and Eggsy looks back to find him dancing like a bloody idiot--or more accurately, a failure of a stripper, hips awkwardly moving as he dramatises it all, mouthing the words. Gemma’s clearly in shock, but she gets over it quickly, grinning with awe and pure joy.

Huh. Lestrade was right. Poor sod. But then again, Lestrade’s a _tosser_ who works a lot and Gemma deserves nice things. Good for her.

People eventually join in on the dancing, leaving half of Eggsy’s table practically barren. Even fucking _Anderson’s_ managed to snag somebody. Unbelievable.

“You know what,” Eggsy’s mum says over the loud music, determined, “If Greg can embarrass himself like that-- _Well_ , so can I!”

Eggsy raises his eyebrows, wondering who she’s gonna dance with, but--

“Go on, Michelle,” Harry encourages. “That man’s been glancing at you for the past fifteen minutes.”

“Really? You think so?”

Eggsy wants to ask and search the room with laser eyes as to who the hell this ‘man’ is. But if Harry’s approving, maybe he ain’t too bad. “Go on, mum!”

She takes a deep breath and beams, standing up and marching her way off. Eggsy can’t help but be nosy of course, neck craning over to see better.

From Eggsy’s right, Rose huffs. “She’ll be fine.”

“Yeah, but--” He stops, squinting. His mum’s talking to this bloke in some other table, and the bloke smiles, standing up to offer his hand. She smiles back, clearly exhilarated but shy. God, this is ridiculous. She’s all grown up. He simultaneously feels proud and suspicious.

“Really, it’s fine. Grant’s a good man.”

“Grant?” Eggsy repeats automatically, still tracking them on the dancefloor. “What’s he like? Are you sure he’s not an arseho--”

“We’ll deal with that, if ever,” Harry cuts in. “For now, let her be.”

Eggsy moves his scrutinising gaze to him. He realises he hasn’t fully looked at Harry for almost ten minutes. 

Is that an achievement?

It should be. God, Eggsy should get a medal. It didn’t _feel_ like ten minutes.

“What about you?” Eggsy asks him, trying to sound flippant. “You ain’t dancing with anybody?”

“Clearly not.”

Eggsy also realises that only he, Harry, and Rose are left in this table. He squints at him, wondering if this is another father-figure moment where he’s making sure nothing...untoward is going on.

Can Eggsy be delusional enough to think Harry’s a little bit jealous? At least a tiny bit?

Harry looks away and Eggsy purses his lips. It’s probably better not to think like that. Besides, he needs to remember that while his end goal with Harry involves the stupid embarrassing romantic stuff, he has to lure him in with the prospect of convenient sex and companionship first. The thought of it is a bit discouraging, but that’s just the reality of it. Not to say that Harry doesn’t _care_ about him, because Eggsy knows he does. The question is, to what _extent_.

As it is, he should probably concentrate on other things.

“So, Rose,” Eggsy begins, mischievous streak on the rise. “Do you have a boyfriend?”

She laughs, settling on a smile. “Very direct. That’s new.”

“Is it? I was a bit worried there to be honest,” He chuckles back, genuine. He tilts his head in curiosity at her expression, trying not to mind the stare he _thinks_ he feels as he tries to figure her out. “Your father the cliché strict type?”

Rose huffs, evasive. “It’s not that daddy doesn’t let me date, it’s just that--”

Eggsy’s mind stops working, unable to process whatever she’s saying next, because-- _Fucking hell_ , for a split second there he genuinely thought she actually meant _Harry_. His next line of thought scrambling to make up for the first one is that she’s dating an older man--a concept that honestly prompts a _cringe_ as a judgmental reaction in addition to an overprotective urge.

Hypocritical in all kinds of ways, yeah, he’s ashamed to realise.

The fact that it took him all kinds of roads to get to the most probable meaning is fucking _mental_. Rose is talking about her actual dad.

For fuck’s sake.

As she talks on and on, he starts to realise that maybe that’s why Harry never caught on. Other than the repression, this is starting to make more sense. Rose is a bit on the posh side of life. So is Harry.

Their kind usually call their parents either _mother_ and _father_ or _mummy_ and _daddy_ with a straight face practically for a fucking lifetime. No can blame him--As far as he knows, his two posh friends are the exception to the ‘daddy’ rule. Roxy only uses _father_ or _dad_ or even _papa_ \--which is a bit odd, come to think of it. And Quinlan doesn't really talk about his father at all but the word he uses is just that, ‘father’.

Fucking hell. Eggsy’s a bloody idiot.

All this time--No fucking wonder.

Jesus.

He needs to do something--He needs to either wean himself off this humiliating daddy kink or drag Harry with him to the lowest depths of hell. He knows which one he wants. The only cause for hesitation is that he’ll probably have to _tell_ Harry outright and spell it out for him. It’ll be mortifying.

“Do you want dessert?”

Eggsy blinks, confused for a moment before he slowly turns his head towards Harry. He’s honestly doubting the reality he lives in, especially considering how neutral Harry’s face is, like he’s never spoken at all.

Which could be possible. Hallucinations wouldn’t really surprise him at this point. It would only be karma. There’s bound to be lots of those for all the skeevy shit he’s done.

Except he senses Rose staring at him and Harry back and forth. Eventually, she shifts in her seat and politely declines, “No, thank you. That’s kind of you, though.”

Eggsy’s eyebrows raise in reaction, because first of all, it’s cute how she thought that was meant for her. Managing to contain his pride and amusement, he tries to play it cool and shrugs. “Depends on what they have, I suppose.”

Now it’s Harry who’s raising his eyebrows. “Did you think I was getting it for you? You might want to check for yourself before the line gets too long.”

Hiding the shame and offence, Eggsy only makes a show of craning his neck to look over to the buffet table. Honestly, you’d think they’d focus the lighting on that spot considering it’s the highlight of the evening but _no_. He purses his lips and shrugs again. “Nah. Too lazy.” He immediately turns back to Rose, purposely curious and interested. “ _Anyway_ , surely your dad wouldn’t marry you off for a business deal. You’re young, y’know. You should be enjoying life. Plus--”

“What would you like?” Harry interrupts.

Eggsy slows to a stop before he waves him off, absent and careless. “You know what I like.” He keeps talking to Rose, and the more he does, the more he finds himself starting to _care_. So maybe he _might_ be overprotective as Roxy accuses him to be sometimes but--“It’s your life, they shouldn’t be able to just ask you to marry some old man.”

He barely registers Harry’s chair making a noise as he stands and moves away. Eggsy tries not to care and blocks him out of his senses. Fuck him. Who needs desserts anyway?

Pursing his lips, Harry straightens his suit as he makes his way to the newly replenished buffet table. At last, that blasted song is finally nearing its end. _‘Careless Whisper’,_ while an iconic and an admittedly embarrassing song, isn’t a right fit for a romantic anniversary dance. If one actually pays attention to the words, it’s about a disintegration of a relationship. Lestrade will be kicking himself in a few years at the savage irony.

Unfortunately, a more pathetic [song](https://drive.google.com/file/d/0B6aF7_1BmgYpVHhjTFA1c1p6Rzg/view?usp=sharing) follows suit. Christ.

Shaking his head, Harry picks up a plate, scrutinising the offerings of desserts. He can’t help but glance back to the table. His jaw clenches and his eyes narrow at Eggsy and Rose animatedly talking, seemingly unbothered by being in each other’s space. Why should they? Harry’s not bothered. This is perfectly normal. Two magnetic teenagers liking each other’s company.

Nothing wrong with that whatsoever.

He narrows his eyes at the desserts, tempted to put the least appealing one on the plate. Eggsy will have to eat it. He doesn’t like wasting food.

Nevertheless, Harry is clearly regaining some sense of control because he forgoes it and continues with his proper selections. He finds himself discreetly sniffing at them as a habit in case there’s anything sinister about it.

He scans the area as he makes his way back to the table. People on the dancefloor are more languid in their movements, matching the tempo of the song. Lestrade and his wife have this ridiculous look of such infatuation, the kind of affliction Harry’s had to deal with being around certain people in uni back in the day, people who should have spent their time studying.

Disgusting.

If it’s any consolation, Michelle’s still dancing. While it seems that she’s genuinely delighted, she’s looking awfully bashful and nervous and awkward and Harry can’t stand to look at her a second longer, the discomfort is simply too much.

Harry barely gets to his destination when it registers to him what Eggsy’s saying.

“Okay, but what about French kissing, right?” He prompts conspiratorially, eager and curious. “Like, apparently _some_ people don’t like it, but what do you think?”

The dessert plate clatters slightly when it’s placed on their table, startling Eggsy a little in surprise. At the sight of the food, he’s immediately overcome by absolute delight. “Hey! Nice! Cheers, guv.”

He seems terribly oblivious as he carries on with his conversation. To the girl’s credit, Rose seems to be taking it as a serious topic, albeit with a hint of amusement. “Depends on the person and the mood, I would think--Going from the marks on your neck, they might just be into necking--" Harry immediately stares at the ceiling, forcing himself to marvel at the architectural details while Eggsy hastily tries to fix the scarf on his neck to hide more skin as she continues. “Having someone’s tongue in their mouth might be weird for them, understandably, they might need a bit of time--”

“I need to ease them into it, huh," Eggsy murmurs, almost to himself, except he snaps out of it. “Not that I--You know, I’m not an expert or like...an _enthusiast_ or anything. You?” Eggsy suddenly waggles his eyebrows, going for deflection. “You up for teaching me a few things--”

“ ** _Gary_** ," The reprimand comes, simple, but utterly cold and devoid of emotion, sending a chill up Eggsy's spine that turns into liquid _heat_.

Slowly, he turns to look at Harry to find an unreadable expression that drives him wild with all the possibilities.

Honestly, he’s torn between offence and arousal because as far as Eggsy can remember, he doesn't think he's ever heard Harry call him ‘Gary’.

For fuck’s sake.

“Yes?" Eggsy answers politely, playing genuine and innocent. “Mr. Hart?”

“Such crass behaviour,” Harry mildly announces, staring down at the half-empty champagne flute in his hand. “How would Miss Jansen feel about that?”

It’s such an unexpected line of conversation that Eggsy can’t do anything but stare for a moment. “That’s a weird question.”

“Hardly. I was under the impression that you’d be bringing her along if you ever deigned to show up for the party.”

Slowly, Eggsy’s eyebrows rise up. “And what gave you that impression?”

“Your mother might’ve mentioned something. Your girlfriend is a dancer, is she not?”

Eggsy gapes before giving into a facepalm, actually massaging his temples.

“Ba--” He catches himself. “ _Harry_ ,” He exasperates instead. “Do you still actually believe that me and Jansen ever had a thing going?”

Lips thin, Harry only stares back looking deceptively nonplussed. There’s a curious hum from Rose beside Eggsy.

Eggsy takes a slow deep breath, trying to gather all the patience he has left in his body. “Okay, you know what?” He begins, absentmindedly sorting through the dessert. “Mr. Hart, lay out your evidence.”

“Evidence?”

“How many times have I said that me and Jansen don’t have a thing?” Eggsy complains.

“Your words and actions are perfectly capable of contradicting themselves.”

“Bullshit,” Eggsy grouses, crunching on caramel popcorn. “When do I even have the time to mess about? Remember how you told me you weren’t dating my mum and I didn’t believe you and it was very annoying?”

“How could I ever forget?” Harry mutters.

“That’s you right now. I’mma tell you this only once,” He warns him. “I have never been _involved_ with her.” It technically _isn’t_ a lie. Alicia Longman is another issue that he’ll never bring up unless asked. “There were times when it seemed that way, I own up to that, but like, you know, that’s just harmless flirting--”

“Ah, yes, you do tend to flirt with everything that moves under the sun,” Harry sniffs, offhand, eyes on the dancefloor. It’s gotta be the nearest thing to _rude_ Eggsy’s ever witnessed from him.

Shocked, Eggsy can feel the heat in his ears once he remembers that Rose is literally right beside him. Christ, what the fuck is wrong with Harry? Eggsy goes on to vehemently deny the accusation. “ _No_ , I don’t. And besides, even if I _did_ get anywhere close, you somehow interrupted _every_ time. Remember?”

There’s a subtle clench of the jaw and a flash of guilt that Eggsy picks up on. He finds himself softening a bit, taking a small piece from a little pastry with a tiny spoon. “Honestly, I spend most of my days with you, Harry,” Eggsy reminds him, sighing. “I hardly have time for anything else. I’m practically a parasitic limb. Where else could I possibly be?”

Before Harry can say anything, Eggsy perks up, making a rather sinful noise as he stares down at his dessert. “This is good,” He marvels, immediately pushing the whole plate towards him. “Try this tart, Harry.”

Harry manages to keep his composure, ready to politely decline. What stops him is the encouraging noise that Eggsy makes; There’s a hint of something practically near _whining_. Not wanting to make a scene, Harry quickly complies, realising too late how ridiculous the tiny spoon in his hand looks. He barely tastes the sweetness in his mouth before he stands an murmurs an excuse, pushing the plate back and making his way to the dancefloor.

He ignores the way Eggsy frowns, heading for Gemma who is dancing with someone else but is craning her head around looking for Lestrade. The man’s busy being pulled away by somebody who clearly has a professional interest.

“Might I have this dance?” Harry aims for distraction. For the sake of Lestrade or himself, he doesn’t know.

Eggsy narrows his eyes, shoulders becoming hunched as he watches on, scowling as he has some more dessert.

Rose clears her throat beside him.

“Oh, shit,” Eggsy curses around the tiny spoon, pushing the plate towards her. “Sorry, here, have some.”

“...So,” She begins, a curious lilt to her tone. His brows furrow as he turns to stare at her. She looks awfully innocent though, especially as she backtracks, “Sorry, nevermind. It’s a personal question.”

Eggsy doesn’t even bother asking. “Good idea, I’mma stay mysterious.”

Rose laughs and he absently tries out the desserts on the plate. Honestly, there’s so much on here, Eggsy’s half-sure he’s gonna get sugar high or something by the end of the night. He’s almost embarrassed to admit that he’s actually fond of this dainty [thing](http://i.imgur.com/XRmEgZJ.jpg) in a tiny cup, full of cream and what looks like to be chopped strawberries among other little things, drizzled with this pink syrup.

“What’s this called?” He asks her. If anyone’s bound to know, it’s probably Rose. She seems close with Gemma, and Gemma seems the type to micromanage her dessert choices for a special party.

“It’s called Eton Mess,” Rose tells him, and Eggsy almost chokes.

He mutters instead. “Cheeky.”

Distantly realising there’s a new [song](https://drive.google.com/file/d/0B6aF7_1BmgYpaS12ZWNZc2tvSG8/view?usp=sharing) playing, he looks to the dancefloor. It’s an upbeat song, and something about it reminds him of Christmas for some reason. The people dancing adjust to it fairly quick. Harry and Gemma are--Eggsy resolutely looks away, but he catches Rose glancing at the dancefloor and back to him.

Shit.

“Do you, err,” Eggsy ventures, falling back on Harry’s lessons, “...Wanna dance?”

She raises an eyebrow, odd amusement on her expression. “I’d rather not. High heels. I’ve been wearing them for about four hours.”

Eggsy manages not to sigh in relief. He winces in sympathy instead. “My best mate has that problem sometimes.”

“Your best mate wears high heels?” She questions slowly.

“Of course she does, she’d rather be caught dead than wear sandals with formal dress,” He snorts. “She can get away with wearing boots though. Or Converse. Depends on how long her dress is and which parent she’s with.”

Rose looks at him with something like wonder. “Your best mate’s a girl?”

“One of them is, yeah.”

She squints at him, a disbelieving smile pulling at the corner of her mouth. “And you don’t have a crush on her?”

Eggsy can’t help the face that he makes. “No, what the hell--”

“ _Hmm_. Oddly enough, I believe you.” Her brows furrow like she doesn’t quite know why. “Good job, Gary, you’re a rare one.”

He scrunches his nose. “Hardly.” Eggsy can’t help but glance to the dancefloor again. Because he’s a fucking idiot. Harry looks like he has no intention of stopping anytime soon, making some light conversation as he dances with Gemma. Such fucking poise and confident ease. There’s something about the way he just seems to want to keep her attention on him. It’s hardly a task going by the way she laughs demurely and makes a responding quip that Eggsy can’t hear all the way from where he is.

It’s not that he’s jealous. He’s not. Gemma’s clearly into her husband. Whatever cheeky light flirting she joins in on is innocent and basically a put-on show. Maybe she’s wanted to get Lestrade’s attention for so long it’s become a habit. But--This song. It’s clearly romantic and shit. And they just look so _cozy_.

She’s probably his type. Lady-like and graceful, smart and witty. But--Lonely. Eggsy reckons she’s lonely, really. All smiles and charm aside. Because Lestrade’s a fucking dumb arse and it would be easy to seduce her if you were someone like Harry Hart.

Eggsy doesn’t even realise he’s scowling around the tiny spoon until Rose huffs at him.

“What?” He asks, trying not to sound defensive.

“You should go dance, Gary.”

“I’m just tryna make sure my mum isn’t being wild,” He tells her, belatedly looking for his mum. Despite tempo she has to work to catch up with, she’s clearly enjoying herself now. The Grant bloke looks rather charmed. Embarrassing. Eggsy wants none of that shit.

But.

It’s nice.

“Hmm,” Rose suddenly hums beside him, musing. “He’s a good dancer, that Mr. Hart, changing my mind. What do you think? Is he cruel enough to reject me in front of everybody?”

Eggsy whips his head back so fast he hears a crack in his own neck. He narrows his eyes at her carefree expression in absolute suspicion as he stands and backs away from the table.

He doesn’t even realise where he’s at until he almost bumps against one of the people dancing.

In shame, he determinedly does _not_ look at Rose, bloody hell. He can’t be that obvious, can he? Christ. Maybe she thinks Eggsy’s trying to save Harry for his mum or something. That's reasonable, isn't it?

Currently, Harry has his back towards Eggsy as he’s dancing with Gemma, and Eggsy finds himself staying in his blindspot until Gemma catches sight of him in his approach, perking up.

Eggsy huffs and smiles, resolutely ignoring his own hand on Harry’s shoulder and the way Harry imperceptibly tenses underneath. “May I cut in?”

The song isn't over yet, and he honestly doesn't know if that’s bad etiquette or something but here he is.

Gemma’s smiling brightly though, pulling away from Harry and angling more towards him and--

Eggsy instinctively finds himself stepping forward to smoothly take her space, turning his back on her to face Harry.

Shit. Eggsy keeps the panic out of sight as he looks up at Harry’s frozen expression. He can’t really blame him because Eggsy feels the same fucking way.

Holy shit, what the _fuck_ is he doing?

It’s probably a self-defence mechanism, the way Eggsy gives a little laugh when he looks over his own shoulder at a shell-shocked Gemma.

“Aha.” Eggsy does his best to look like he meant to do that all along, grinning for good measure while still looking apologetic. “Sorry--” He pointedly glances down at her fancy open-toed high heels. “Wouldn’t wanna step on those. They look like real diamonds, I couldn’t pay you back--Him, though, I can roughen up easy-peasy.”

At that, Eggsy can sense Harry coming back to himself, to reject him no doubt, but Eggsy’s hand on his shoulder _grips_. It doesn't really stop Harry from gritting through his teeth, “You will do no such thing.”

“Oi, but you promised to teach me,” Eggsy near-whines. “How am I meant to pull all the girls without the fancy dancing technique?”

Gemma chortles as a late reaction, not offended whatsoever. “Alright, Gary, you do that.” She winks at him, grinning back. “I’ll go find my husband.”

Harry’s hands hovering in the small space between them twitch. Eggsy’s adrenaline-high makes him either brave or stupid, because he’s grabbing one of Harry’s hands and settling it on his waist. He’s staring at Harry’s face, so he gets to see the barely audible sharp intake of breath through his teeth and Eggsy just finds himself swaying closer.

He wants him to fall apart, and Eggsy wants to _see_ what that looks like every step of the way.

It’s so fucking dizzying, the possibility of it all. Also, if there ever was a hangover medication, Harry must be the holistic option, because as overwhelmed as Eggsy is, he’s not nauseous, and the headache lingering at the peripherals just gets muted at the mere proximity.

“Stay,” Eggsy murmurs lowly, and he doesn’t even realise that he’s ordered Harry. Just feels the hand on his waist twitch before it tries to pull away.

Eggsy takes a step on Harry’s oxfords without proper thought. He shouldn’t be so excited just to see a fucking reaction, but god, he’s so fucking sprung.

The expression on Harry’s face is half shocked and murderous and it isn’t disappointing whatsoever. “Please don’t do that.”

“Why?”

“Dangerous,” Harry utters, nonsensical.

“Dangerous? Stepping on your shoes is dangerous?” Eggsy challenges, amused. He tries to get him to dance, but the song is clearly on its way to the end. When Harry finally opens his mouth to say something, the new [song](https://drive.google.com/file/d/0B6aF7_1BmgYpcWNRUUZGZmpBN3M/view?usp=sharing) shuts him up.

It gives Eggsy some pause too. He can feel himself flushing with something like embarrassment and regret once the words finally register to him.

Either way, Eggsy powers through and takes the chance to coax him to sway along with his light movements. He doesn’t know what the fuck he’s doing, so hopefully Harry will lead him because he doesn’t want to look more of an idiot.

Eggsy reckons a bit of an apology might speed things along.

“S’nothing a bit of spit and polish won’t fix, daddy.”

“Christ,” Harry utters, resolutely keeping his eyes forward, over Eggsy’s head due to the height difference. “What the hell do you think you’re doing? You’re giving me whiplash.”

“Oh, come on--” Petty about the height difference, Eggsy tries stepping on his oxfords again, but Harry smoothly avoids him. “--We gotta play the part, don’t we?”

“Is this a fucking game?” Harry grits out, still not meeting his eyes. He’s moving the hand on Eggsy’s waist to settle on his upper arm instead.

“Depends.” Eggsy tries to be optimistic anyway. At least Harry’s swaying along, guiding him bit by bit, Eggsy can feel it. “How long are you gonna be playing hard to get?”

Harry meets his eyes then. “Is that a threat?”

“I don’t know. Does it turn you on?”

Maybe Eggsy’s just too sensitive about the way Harry breathes, but the breath that Harry takes is deep and calculated. “Threats shouldn’t be appealing in any context.”

“As a general rule, yeah,” Eggsy allows. “For some people, it could be foreplay.”

“ _Eggsy_ \--”

“Harry.” Eggsy holds his gaze, setting his hand on the back of Harry’s waist.

The music is loud, no doubt about it. But Eggsy can hear Harry’s words clearly, close and articulate. “How much do you remember?”

Eggsy shrugs lightly, keeping close scrutiny on Harry’s face. So he sees it when Harry grinds his teeth. “You can’t--” Harry stops and starts. “What happened between--What about Miss Haversham?” He asks abruptly.

Eggsy’s nose wrinkles. “Who?”

“Rose. Rose Haversham,” Harry tells him, gaze afar.

“...Oh. Is that her name?” Eggsy absently says, nose slightly scrunching. “You were paying attention then? How’d I do?”

“...What,” Harry utters, impossibly flat.

Eggsy raises his eyebrows. “You’ve been teaching me lessons, mostly on how to get posh people to like me. Granted, I broke a few rules here and there, but she’d have found me entirely boring if I acted anything else than I did. I _adjusted_. Reckon she needed a bit of excitement in her life. But overall, I tried to go over the lessons,” Eggsy tells him, genuine. “So, how I’d do?”

Harry stares at him, his movements absent-minded. As Eggsy worries that he didn’t do well, he notices that while Harry has a hand settled on Eggsy’s upper arm, the other one is just lightly on Eggsy’s elbow.

Ridiculous.

Huffing in amused annoyance, Eggsy moves his arm to jostle Harry’s hand off. Before it entirely pulls back, Eggsy catches it in a hold.

Harry’s hand jolts, ready to pull away, but Eggsy grips, interlacing their fingers.

“Did I do good?” Eggsy quietly demands.

“Don’t--” Harry grits out.

“D'you want me to beg?”

There’s a wounded noise that doesn’t quite make it out of Harry’s throat.

Eggsy waits.

“You did well,” Harry finally breathes.

Even as Eggsy preens he can’t quite help but check and scrutinise Harry’s face as he asks, “Did I really? You don’t have to say that I did good, I really just wanted an answer.”

“No,” Harry utters, something in his tone begrudging. “You didn’t do _good_. You did _well_.”

Eggsy guffaws and steps on Harry’s oxfords.

“Darling, _don’t--_ ”

At Harry’s glare, Eggsy blinks innocently, pleased. “Just playing the part.”

At that, Harry’s expression settles, and for a while he seems to humour the pretense they’re both clinging on to; He makes a show of slightly exaggerating his movements as he corrects Eggsy’s, looking down as he observes Eggsy’s feet in making some steps and corrects that too. He even steps on Eggsy’s foot with his fucking heel in what is sure to be retaliation.

Any attempt of retribution from Eggsy is smoothly avoided in quick graceful steps that ends with Eggsy being a victim of a turn maneuver, leaving him slightly dizzy.

But that could just be from the resulting lack of space between them. Eggsy tries to keep his fucking cool.

There’s something more certain in Harry’s tone when he speaks. “You did well.”

It’s fucking stupid to get all woozy from a three word compliment, but hey, Eggsy’s not entirely perfect. Which is why it was stupid to get his hopes up to begin with because Harry is painfully gentle when he urges him, “You did well, now please let go of my hand.”

“What do I get later if I do as you say?”

“Eggsy--”

The song’s transitioning into the [next](https://drive.google.com/file/d/0B6aF7_1BmgYpTmRaQmp0SFp2eTA/view?usp=sharing) one and Eggsy doesn’t even really take notice. Not until it’s too late.

Fuck. It’s a slow song.

The mortifying kind.

It’s ridiculous that it’s _now_ that Eggsy begins to feel self-conscious.

“D’you want to meet my friends?” Eggsy ends up blurting out in a shitty form of distraction.

“What.”

“My friends. You know, Ryan, Jamal…” Eggsy trails off, internally in a panic.

“I _do_ know, because I’ve already met them.”

“Well, yeah, but...second time’s the charm for a better impression?”

Harry stares at him, uncomprehending. Eggsy finds himself looking down at the small space between them, trying not to let the embarrassment win. This fucking song is so stupid, he wants to die. They’re shuffling now, ever so slowly turning in circles, and Eggsy’s watching his own left hand on Harry’s waist, wondering how he ever got the fucking bollocks to put that there.

He feels the need to make sure that this is reality and _grips_ , just a little, fingers digging against the fabric of Harry’s suit.

The sensation of Harry breathing, ribcage expanding to press against Eggsy’s knuckles--Christ.

“What?” Harry murmurs, low.

Eggsy doesn’t even remember saying anything, jesus fucking christ. “Erm, my mates, they uh, well--” Eggsy tries to get his thoughts together, mumbling, “Ryan’s kinda scared of you or something. Jamal’s, well, I dunno. Needs more information, I guess.”

“...And?”

“I just--I want them to know that you’re not so terrible, you know? Ryan be scared like you kill people for a living,” Eggsy huffs awkwardly, looking up to meet Harry’s eyes. “I mean, not that I'd mind, but like--” Harry looks away, a muscle in his jaw ticking, and Eggsy feels fucking stupid. “Nevermind. It’s fine. It’s cool. You’re not gonna be there for my birthday anyway--” The reality of that makes it difficult to resist the bitterness. “And you’re just busy in general, so that was a stupid idea--”

“Eggsy--”

There’s that sensation, that flush of embarrassment, giving way to something worse: a cold realisation of self-consciousness that Eggsy can’t escape. Christ, what the fuck is he doing? He’s acting like some kind of love-sick girl, clingy and--For fuck’s sake how stupid and awkward do they look, shuffling to a slow dance? How many people are looking at them? What are they _thinking_ about them? Shit.

Shit, shit, shit.

A single thought puts a stop to it all.

_Probably something father-son related._

Just like that, Eggsy feels like he’s so sober he could vomit.

“Erm--” The song feels like it’s about to end soon and Eggsy is starting to get nauseous. But he puts on a brave face and extricates his hand from Harry’s waist, giving a quick friendly pat and quick smile without meeting his eyes--because he feels Harry looking anyway.

The song can’t end fast enough, and Eggsy’s regrettably pulling away, because it’s too crowded all of a sudden, and he can’t breathe properly. Still, he puts on a casual expression as he walks away, because he doesn’t want anyone asking questions or _thinking_ anything he doesn’t want them to think.

He’s almost back to their empty table when he fucking _trips--_ and all he can think about is how _furious_ he is with himself--but a hand grabs him by the hip and Harry’s pulling him back and Eggsy’s even _more_ furious. Especially when Harry clicks his tongue irritably and maneuvers Eggsy to take a few steps to sit on what used to be Rose’s seat.

The shame and fury makes him flush. Before he can even snap at him for how he’s treating him like a child, Harry’s crouching and slightly pulling one of Eggsy’s feet up for examination, muttering under his breath in displeasure at the untied shoelace.

It must’ve come undone during the shitty shuffle dance they were doing, either that or their shoe stepping contest, but the humiliation worsens when Harry makes a lesson out of it.

“Did no one teach you how to properly tie a shoelace?”

Fucking--Eggsy moves his perfectly tied oxford higher for emphasis. “You blind too or what?”

Harry’s expression is severely unamused, and it’s bizarre how genuinely close it is to irritation and distress. “That’s not the proper way--” He fully unties the laces on the compromised shoe. “Pay attention.”

“You can’t be serious--This can’t be happening right now. The bunny-ears method is _proper_.” Eggsy leans in closer to mutter under his breath, “Fuck you.”

“Properly _dangerous_ ,” Harry grouses through gritted teeth as he starts to tie the laces. “There’s that and there’s the _traditional_ method. You do it like this, and it’ll come undone less, meaning you’re _safer_ ,” He emphasises with sharp tugs, muttering under his breath. “It also doesn't hurt to secure it with another round--Christ. Something so simple, how could I possibly leave you alone--” He unties the other oxford and does it up properly, still crouching, a knee nearly touching the floor.

Eggsy’s flushing for all kinds of reasons but it’s all cut short by the sight of Gemma a few yards away, clearly about to wander over to their table. Eggsy clears his throat to alert him. “Put it on the lesson plan, teach me at home.”

Harry freezes, but he stands and composes himself before Gemma sees anything. She’s smiling, but it falls rather short as she asks, “Have you seen my husband?”

Realising that’s a bit odd, Eggsy frowns, making an effort to look around the space. He catches Harry politely shaking his head, but there’s something about it that makes him squint.

“Perhaps he’s simply off to the restroom,” says Harry.

Gemma huffs at that. “Ah, yes, that would be the one place I didn’t check.”

“Would you like me to?” Harry offers, and Eggsy raises his eyebrows. Gemma looks like she’s having an internal struggle behind her sociable persona.

“Well, that’s--” She laughs. “It’s fine, it’s silly. I must seem so clingy--”

“It’s no problem,” Eggsy interjects with assurance, standing and putting a hand on Harry’s elbow. “How many restrooms does this place have?”

When Harry looks at him, Eggsy thinks he _knows_ what shenanigans they could get up to--And he wouldn’t be wrong. Harry knows the terrible possibilities. Thankfully, Harry sees Lestrade in the distance, appearing rather harried as he makes his way towards them. “No need for that, it seems.” He keeps the relief out of his tone.

Gemma perks up at the sight of him. “Where have you been?”

Despite the playful tone, Lestrade’s smile is more of a grimace. Harry’s ready to turn away and let them have their own private conversation, but Lestrade admits, “We might have a problem.”

“What do you mean?” Gemma asks.

Lestrade grits his teeth, failing to give a reassuring smile. “Just checked on your family out in the gardens--Didn’t you tell your aunt Margaret there were no animals allowed?”

Harry tries to leave, but Eggsy’s grip on his elbow has him staying. The nosy little--

“Well, the coordinator said assistance dogs were allowed, and aunt Marge--”

“And aunt Marge _doesn’t_ have that dog trained on an official capacity, which means she _lied_ , and now that dog’s on the loose in a nineteen acre property, and that’s not counting the--”

Harry hears Eggsy gasp, and there’s that sinking sense of dismay. An accurate sense, because Eggsy’s perking up, the eavesdropping child--"A _puppy_?” The mere way he says it belies the clear switch of priorities. “How long since they’ve been missing?”

An embarrassed Lestrade looks even more contrite at realising they have an audience of two. “Fifteen minutes, she said--But we can’t have a massive search party, the staff’s bound to be suspicious and--”

Gemma appears genuinely worried. “Maybe Peter’ll just come back?” She sounds doubtful of her own suggestion.

“That’s all what Margaret’s been trying to do for the last fifteen minutes,” Lestrade tells her, trying to keep his calm. “But there’s no sign of the bloody thing--”

Eggsy raises a hand, ridiculously noble and determined. “Don’t you worry, guv--I got you.”

The expression on Lestrade’s face belies his deeper despair, one that Harry shares. “That’s not--I--It’s--”

“It’s only been fifteen minutes, right?” Eggsy prompts over Lestrade’s excuses. “How far can a dog go in that time within nineteen acres?” It seems this is the type of shit Quinlan’s torturous maths questions has been for.

Lestrade is clearly dubious of Eggsy’s skills, but Eggsy’s hand on Harry’s elbow moves to Harry’s shoulder, and he rewords his pitch. “ _We_ got you.”

Harry doesn’t groan, but he can’t help the sigh.

 

 

»

 

 

Eggsy takes the chance to walk faster as if that’ll help him avoid the lecture he’ll get--It was just an excuse, really, getting Harry involved. Lestrade wouldn’t stand for it if he did it alone. Like his mission with Cavendish--which is almost a success  _by the way_. It’s rather demeaning not to be trusted with something simple like helping find something or someone.

A lost fucking _puppy_? Well, Eggsy’s gonna fucking find it. And no one’s gonna stop him.

Regardless, Eggsy finds himself slowing down at the sight outside.

Fancy white gazebos are spread around the green, with tables just like the ones inside. Somehow it just seems more upper-class overall. They even have their own dance space out here, speakers connected to the music inside. There’s more fancier looking alcohol and even fancier glasses.

The posh _fucks_.

The Great Hall was like a fucking oven, and these people get to have fresh air? Eggsy squints, absently pulling up his scarf higher due to the slightly cool air. It only takes three seconds of impulsive spite to swipe a fancy glass of what looks like to be champagne, downing half of it in three gulps. Anyway, it should keep him warm for his expedition. Tastes nice too. Bubbly.

He catches sight of a pompous old woman looking mildly irritated as she scans around the place. Rose is nearby, and she catches his gaze, appearing rather relieved to have an excuse to get away from her.

“That the infamous Aunt Marge?” Eggsy utters.

“Lestrade told you?”

“Yeah, poor bloke, looking even more stressed than he usually does.” Eggsy somehow worries that Harry’s gonna catch up to him soon. “I’mma look around, low-key, you know?”

“That’s awfully kind of you, Gary,” Rose says, genuine, and Eggsy annoyingly wishes the hair on the back of his neck would fucking _stop_.

“Can’t resist puppies, me,” He says hurriedly. “So, which direction was he last seen?”

Rose tells him what little detail she has to the best of her ability. “I wish there was more, really--Do you need help? I can come with, Peter might respond to me--”

Eggsy rubs at the back of his neck. While that plan would make sense--"Nah, s’alright, stay with your aunt, she looks dangerous. Keep surrounding peons safe and all that.”

She huffs. “Goodluck.”

Looking out to the dark beyond, Eggsy can’t help but admit, “Thanks, gonna need it.”

He walks straight out until he gets to the bridge. He’s likely wrong, but it just seems so old that it doesn’t seem stable. Nevertheless, he walks on, slow and cautious. The farther he goes, the darker it gets, and he tries to keep an ear out. What he notices is, unlike the moat by the entrance, there’s no sound of water. Leaning over the railing to squint in the dark, that would make sense, because there isn’t any. It seems to have been dried out in this part of the property for a very long time, vegetation in its place.

That’s good for the dog then, if it fell over. Shit. Do they survive that kind of fall? It looks about fifteen to twenty feet to the bottom. Cats would, probably, but dogs--

At the end of the bridge is a rickety wooden gate that matches the railing, allowing a space where a small dog could go through. On second thought, no. But a small dog _could_ have jumped on the ledge and walked on to the other side without being blocked by the gate.

Problem is, it's locked. Eggsy could kick it over, but that would get Lestrade in trouble.

Trying to think, Eggsy gnaws on his lower lip, leaning over the railing to see more of the property as far as he can. It could be under the bridge, hiding, so--

A hand grabs at his suit and Eggsy startles, but it’s over as quick as it started when he leans back against Harry. “Christ.”

“Must you be so problematic?” Harry utters, stepping back for some space.

“We’re both problematic,” Eggsy grumbles.

“And yet you’ve just signed us up for more trouble.”

“Oi, you didn’t have to. Lestrade seems to think I’m not capable of doing good shit, so I just brought you in it so he’d let me go without much fuss,” Eggsy tells him. “You don’t have to be here--Just want puppy,” He says, eloquent. It’s been a while since he’s been up close and personal with a puppy. He might pass them by on the street, but their fucking owners are _always_ in a fucking hurry, jesus fucking christ. He belatedly realises that Harry’s staring at him. He frowns, staring back. “What?”

Hesitation seems to prevent Harry from speaking, and Eggsy ain’t got no time for that because _puppy_. That’s his new focus for the night.

Eggsy rolls his eyes and checks over the railing once more before hoisting himself over it.

“ _Christ--_ ” He hears Harry hiss, but Eggsy’s too busy holding onto a piece of wood on the side while trying to find footing over the tattered brick foundation of the bridge as he climbs down.

The adrenaline rush is fucking _ace_ , and soon enough he’s on the soft grass below.

As Harry mutters curses up above, Eggsy rubs his hands, looking around, voice soft and coaxing, “Puppy, come on, mate. Where you at?”

“Eggsy bloody Unwin--” Harry hisses.

“Tsk. Shut the hell up with that aggressive shit,” Eggsy hisses back, “You’ll scare the puppy away.”

Somehow, there’s more light, and Eggsy looks up at the sky to finally see the moon, free from the clouds. For now, that is. They’re moving fast. It’s bound to be covered up soon. He frowns and doubles his effort to look afar for any movement. The occasional wind isn’t helping any. Whenever he thinks there’s something, it ends up being a fucking plant.

The noise of the party is seemingly distant from here and this whole situation is starting to get eerie. He probably should climb up the small slope on the side and walk back up to the bridge and unlock the gate to let Harry in, but--

A sudden sound startles him, and when he turns around by pure reflex, the shadow under the bridge looms closer to reveal Harry looking perilously stone-faced.

“Shit,” Eggsy lets out a breath, but it’s not entirely out of relief. “How the fuck did you get here?” When it finally clicks, Eggsy’s out of breath for a different reason altogether. “God,” He can hear the awe in his own voice, “You’re fucking strong, ain't you?”

There’s something about the words that cause Harry to breathe in deep, chest rising with the movement, but Eggsy doesn’t quite know what. All he knows is that he’s trying to rein himself back ‘cos _puppy_. That's the priority. Lost and probably scared somewhere out here, Eggsy needs to fucking _focus_.

Clearing his throat, Eggsy goes on just to do that, making his way to further venture out--Except the hand on his elbow doesn’t just stop him, it pulls him back, back into the dark shadow under the bridge.

“Not that way,” Harry murmurs lowly.

“What.”

“You’d be going around to the north side of the palace. Water under the north bridge--Unlikely location for the bloody thing.”

“Oi--That bloody _thing_ could be thirsty--Why you so antagonistic ‘bout a damn puppy?” Eggsy demands, managing to keep his voice low. “You love puppies!” 

“That’s a wild assumption.” In the dark, he can sense Harry moving on towards the other direction. “Also, Lestrade mentioned that there will be an effort made to cover that side of the property discreetly.”

Eggsy gawks as he follows him. “Why you lyin’? The proof is in the loo! You _love_ Mr. Pickle.”

“Mr. Pickle is not a puppy.”

“He used to be,” Eggsy retorts, bypassing Harry’s long fucking legs and throwing a quip over his shoulder. “Case closed.”

“That’s not a good form of logic,” Harry argues evenly, catching up with him without much effort.

“Yeah, yeah, whatever,” Eggsy absently waves him off. “Teach me more lessons, Mr. Hart.”

“That equates to being in love with an infant simply because an age-appropriate human used to be one,” Harry mutters, and Eggsy stops in his tracks, scrunching his nose at the disgusting thought.

“Okay, well, _yeah_ , but also--All dogs are puppies. Fact.” Eggsy starts to walk again, crooning, “Puppy, come on, mate.”

Harry sighs, following a step behind. “This would be a more successful endeavour if you used his name.”

“ _Peter_ ,” Eggsy suddenly singsongs and Harry immediately regrets it. To have even a _fraction_ of himself envious of a stupid dog is one of the most pathetic things to ever happen. “Peter,” Eggsy croons again, zigzagging around the place in a quicker pace, volume steadily rising.

“Keep it down,” Harry tells him.

It does no good. Eggsy seems to be _far_ into this.

There’s something about it, the way Eggsy progressively appears more giddy and excited and... _reckless_ that evokes a certain dread in the pit of Harry’s stomach.

It almost makes him suspect--

Eggsy gasps, stopping in place. Harry follows, a few steps behind.

“ _Babe_ ,” Eggsy suddenly whispers, arm reaching back. He frowns when he sees how far Harry is. “Tsk,” He clicks his tongue and closes the distance to smack at Harry’s arm before whispering in awe again. “Babe, _look_.”

Harry can’t even lecture him on how inappropriate the term is because he’s following Eggsy’s line of sight to an ominous set of steps leading [down](http://i.imgur.com/EIyjiQa.jpg)to a very dark and narrow passageway.

“No,” Harry finds himself saying immediately.

“ _Yes_ ,” Eggsy breathes in excitement, ignoring him completely and making his way there, somehow expertly avoiding Harry’s attempts to draw him back. “The puppy might be there.” Eggsy shoots him a chiding look over his shoulder. “Cold and lost and alone.”

At this point, Harry’s simply cognisant of the fact that he’s escorting him around wherever he chooses to go.

“Some secret [dungeon](http://i.imgur.com/bdPbnGW.jpg) shit,” Eggsy marvels as they go deeper. Harry manages not to sigh. It’s terribly dark, except for the literal cracks high up on the wall and the holes in the ceiling further away that lets in a bit of moonlight.

There's an eerie pervading sense of doom at the thought of them being here together alone and Harry wants any excuse to get them out.

"This is a very old place," Harry begins.

"S'that so," Eggsy murmurs distractedly.

"Henry the Eighth grew up here."

Eggsy stops abruptly. "Am I gonna see the fucking ghost of headless Anne Boleyn--"

"Don't be ridiculous," Harry cuts him off. "She was beheaded in the Tower of London, you should know this."

"I fucking know it, but if you got me killed I wouldn't haunt where I fucking died, I'mma haunt your arse at _home_ ," Eggsy argues.

The notion is both horrifying and comforting, but Harry persists in his quest. "Well, they didn't reside in Eltham Palace during adult years--Besides, the only ghost I know of here is the retired tour guide who keeps coming back for the job--"

" _Fuck_ ," Eggsy curses before pointing at Harry threateningly. "Stop or I swear I'm gonna fucking hold your hand."

Harry shuts his mouth, resigned to the deeper exploration of the tunnel.

More often than not, Eggsy seems to brush up against the walls as he walks on. It’s rather...unstable.

Harry can’t resist the concern for long. It's been building up since he left Eggsy at home.

Suddenly, Eggsy finds himself back to back with the uneven wall and he can only try to keep his breath steady. Because this can't be what it is. Harry’s been doing his best to avoid him and any kind of attempts.

“Look,” Eggsy begins, keeping his voice even, “Either you're gonna kiss me or I’mma go puppy hunting--”

Harry’s hand comes up to settle on Eggsy’s scarf, shutting him up abruptly. The look on Harry’s face now makes Eggsy wonder why Harry went along with it earlier, why Harry had kissed him back, why he let Eggsy touch him like that. It can’t possibly be that Eggsy’s irresistible. There must be a more realistic reason. Was it loneliness? It couldn’t have been pure horniness, considering Harry technically had some on the job--A fact that just makes Eggsy’s blood boil.

“You’re burning up,” Harry murmurs needlessly, and that’s when Eggsy fucking realises--

“Are you literally taking my pulse right now?” He demands. “What is wrong with you?”

“Tell me how much sleep you’ve had.”

Eggsy huffs.

“Tell me,” Harry implores, soft.

Avoiding his gaze, Eggsy mumbles. “Dunno. Three, maybe?”

Harry shakes his head in what looks to be disapproval and disappointment. “Hungover?”

“...Dunno.”

“Eggsy, you drank around two glasses of wine and followed it with three shots of whiskey,” Harry reminds him, clipped. “All within less than thirty minutes. The weekly allowance for alcohol is around fourteen units, you’ve used up about six or seven in a single day--”

“Oh my god, what are you, a calculator?” Eggsy huffs, “And hey, six to seven out of fourteen ain’t bad, I have more to go--”

“You’re a _minor_ ,” Harry grits out, “You shouldn’t even be--” He stops, brows furrowed, staring at Eggsy’s mouth.

Eggsy swallows.

“...Please don’t tell me you drank champagne,” Harry murmurs, fingers hovering at Eggsy’s lips.

It takes everything for Eggsy _not_ to lean in a fraction just so they fucking touch. “M’just...you know,” Eggsy begins, mumbling his excuses, “It was a little cold outside and I thought it would keep me warm for the rescue mission--”

Harry huffs softly in disbelief. “What am I going to do with you?”

There’s something about the way he says it, resigned and pained. There’s something that reaches deep within Eggsy and _squeezes_ and it hurts him too, just a little.

He doesn’t know why.

“Does it hurt?” Harry murmurs.

Eggsy stupidly finds himself honest. “Sometimes. It comes and goes. Depends really. Cold breeze helped earlier.”

“But not anymore?”

Staring at Harry’s face makes Eggsy suspect that they’re suffering from the same thing. It would make sense. While Harry worries about how much sleep Eggsy’s gotten, Eggsy knows for a fact that Harry’s gotten much less. Tired from work, pestered by a relentless Eggsy non-stop...that puts things in perspective a little bit.

“No,” Eggsy murmurs, “I feel a little like shit, actually. Just as much as you.”

Harry briefly stops in reaching for something his inner coat pocket. “What gives you that idea?” He pulls out a pair of pills.

“Dunno. I think...I think I hurt if you hurt,” The words leave Eggsy’s mouth, senseless. He absently takes a pill, keeping his eyes on Harry’s face as if he’s in a trance. “Don’t you?”

Harry stares back at him. “...Don't I what?”

“Don't you hurt if I hurt?” Eggsy holds the pill up against Harry’s lower lip. That’s why Eggsy can directly feel the exhale that leaves Harry slightly breathless.

Eggsy’s eyes track down the movement of Harry swallowing the pill.

Harry seems to snap out of it, looking displeased. “You were supposed to take that, not me.” He hands over the remaining pill like Eggsy will take it.

“Erm,” Eggsy begins, uncharacteristically awkward, because--"That’s a bit big for me. Like, honest, the ones I usually take are much smaller and considering you expect me to dry swallow that--” Harry raises his eyebrows like he doesn’t quite believe it. “--You’re gonna have to, erm, you know--”

The pill is held against his mouth and Eggsy averts his gaze, taking it in. It isn’t until he’s swallowing around the tips of Harry’s fucking fingers and downing the pill that he suddenly fucking _remembers_.

He’s done this before. Literally a few hours ago he’s had Harry’s _fingers_ down his fucking _throat_ \--

He’d choke if Harry wasn’t pulling out already and he’s flushed with the fucking shame. That’s why Harry had looked at him with disbelief, fucking hell.

“Erm,” Eggsy roughly manages, murmuring against Harry’s wet fingers still against his mouth. “You know, if you expected me to forget everything, why’d you put ‘ _forgive me, the first one was a mistake_ ’ on the X-Box? And what the _fuck--_ ” He’s abruptly reminded of it. “--Why a fucking X-Box?”

“...I figured you’d likely remember the before, not the during,” Harry absently explains. “The fact that you wouldn’t remember a thing would argue the case that it was indeed a mistake. Also, you mentioned you had an outdated video console, I thought I’d--”

Eggsy looks up, meeting his gaze. Overwhelmed, he finds himself sighing, “ _Harry--_ ”

Harry covers his mouth with his hand. “Don’t say my name like that.”

Eggsy whines and he childishly resorts to licking Harry’s palm.

Harry hisses, pulling away, and Eggsy takes his chance.

“Remember what you told me?”

“I told you a lot of things,” Harry responds, contrite, stepping back.

Eggsy grips him by the tie. Not pulling, just holding. “‘ _If there is anything you need, anything you want, I’ll do my best to give it to you,_ ” Eggsy repeats, staring up at him and imploring Harry to meet his eyes. “I know you know. You’ve _got_ to know, Harry--” 

“Stop. You’re not making sense--”

“We don’t gotta go all the way,” Eggsy says, genuine, relishing the way Harry shudders. “I’m sorry if I scared you,” He murmurs. “We can take it slow--Promise. Condoms, whatever you want,” He tries, successfully pulling Harry in by his tie.

But Harry’s shaking his head gently, and his lips brush against Eggsy’s forehead when he pleads, “Please--Please, stop. You’re not in the right state of mind--”

Eggsy tilts his head up and gently urges Harry down until they’re forehead to forehead. “You want me to come back when I’m fully sober? I’ll come back. You know I will. Stop making excuses.”

Harry doesn’t move, even as Eggsy runs his fingers through his hair, electric. Even as Eggsy gently brushes their lips together.

Eggsy _basks_ in it. It’s just like the very first time--but even better. Their noses brush and they simply linger in each others space. “See?” Eggsy coaxes softly. “I can take it slow.” He kisses him again, chaste, and he tries not to be upset that Harry’s not kissing him back.

A sudden tiny yelp catches Eggsy’s attention, turning his head to the side.

Giddy excitement takes over.

“ _Puppy_ ,” He breathes, absently pushing Harry aside to follow the noise.

He barely gets to take three steps before Harry’s pulling him back. The grip on Eggsy’s hip is unyielding and Eggsy’s about to complain until he feels Harry press against him from behind, his other hand snaking up to hold Eggsy back by the throat like he’s trying to teach him a lesson and--

That’s exactly what Harry’s trying to do.

At the memory of being held down against the coffee table, Eggsy can’t help but laugh. He has nothing to fear.

Nothing.

Eggsy’s breath hitches as he turns around to meet him for a rough kiss. He can barely fucking keep up with it, breathless, sharp teeth dragging against the inside of his lip.

Fucking--"Yeah,” Eggsy grunts, pushing Harry against the wall and feeling him up in a frenzy. “Fuck, yeah, Harry--”

Harry struggles to catch his breath from the overwhelming mix of emotions. Eggsy's fingernails are _digging_ into his neck and Eggsy is _grinding_ against him--

"Fuck," Eggsy gasps in awe and lust. "You're so hard for me--"

Shit. The quiet words seem to echo in the tunnel and Harry feels both fear and wicked arousal because _anyone_ could hear them.

"Your mother," Harry desperately tries to remind Eggsy of the fact that she's here somewhere, tries to remind _himself_. "She's--"

Eggsy bites at his lip before kissing him breathless. "Don't fuckin' talk 'bout _anybody_ else when I want your fucking cock--"

“Christ,” Harry hisses, pulling away from another kiss and covering his own mouth, looking overwhelmingly defeated. When Eggsy tries to lean in, Harry keeps him away with a hand. “Go find your puppy.”

Eggsy huffs, near whining. “But--”

“ _Go_.”

"The next time I come, you're gonna be there," Eggsy promises with certainty, weakening Harry's control. The arm that keeps him at bay bends as Eggsy pushes closer, holding his gaze and whispering with gentle conviction, "You're gonna _feel_ me."

Closing his eyes, Harry shudders, caught off-guard, but Eggsy laughs softly and sneaks in a quick chaste kiss before moving away.

Left alone, Harry miserably berates himself. He should be used to his attempts backfiring. Why is he even surprised? Why did he even bother?

After struggling to regain his composure for a few minutes, he eventually follows Eggsy out of the tunnel. Perhaps--

Perhaps he can stay.

Perhaps he can simply let himself be destroyed completely the way he’s already in the process of becoming. Is that so terrible?

It’s not as if he would force himself on Eggsy. Eggsy is bound to change his mind eventually, perhaps Harry can simply wait until Eggsy grows to resent him.

Perhaps that is his necessary end.

Suddenly, there’s a yip, and Eggsy gasps as the tiny [dog](http://i.imgur.com/CTfi5sQ.jpg) escapes him, making a run towards Harry’s direction.

Harry freezes, thinking he’s heard something else, someone calling out his name.

The dog slows to a stop as it nears him, pausing before barking suspiciously.

“Oi,” Eggsy lectures, catching up. The dog keeps on barking and Harry resists kicking it for the sake of silence. “Come on, stop that,” Eggsy chides, picking up the dog in his arms, petting in an attempt to calm it down.

Harry concentrates on trying to hear. He genuinely thinks he’s heard--

“ _Shh_ , come on. It’s just daddy,” Eggsy reasons happily, taking a few more steps towards Harry. The dog seems calmer, but it looks at Harry with suspicion.

At least _somebody_ has good instincts.

Eggsy keeps petting at it, soothing. “See? It’s alright. S’just daddy--” He lightly grabs a paw and waves at Harry with it. “Say hi! _Hi!_ ”

Harry stares, his own fondness cautious and perturbed. Eggsy carefully holds the dog like he’s about to hand it over and--

”Daddy’s more than alright, he’s a good man, promise, go on--”

“Hart?”

Harry immediately looks up to find Lestrade staring down at them, discomforted. Harry instinctively takes a step back from Eggsy.

Oblivious, Eggsy grins up. “Oi, guv, we’ll meet you by the bridge, yeah?”

Silent, they make their way up the slope and unlock the wooden door of the bridge to pass through. Lestrade, while thankful, appears severely uncomfortable as Eggsy hands over the dog. Harry doesn’t know what to do, he feels the same way.

But Eggsy’s interlinking their arms as they make the further walk back and Harry thinks that his death was never meant to be painless anyway.

There seems to be a gathering in the space outside, of someone getting ready to give an announcement. Harry shakes his head at Lestrade’s choices. Lestrade's wife is bound to find out.

“Would you like some form of food?” Harry finds himself asking.

“Huh? What kind? Dessert?” Eggsy questions eagerly.

Harry huffs, deciding Eggsy needs hydration for the medication he took. “I’ll be back.”

Eggsy can't help but smile at him. As much as he wants to follow, he thinks he'll give Harry some space.

Besides, it's cute how Harry doesn't make a move to leave until Eggsy slides his arm away.

Everything seems to be going fine. After all, Eggsy  _did_ promise to take it slow. Which is...good. It'll give him time to prepare.

Mentally, among other things.

He once flipped through a yoga book that had a position about 'widening the anal canal' or some embarrassing bullshit like that, but yeah, it's something to think about. Eggsy tries not to panic and worry too much about how it's gonna go or who's gonna be on top. Obviously if it makes Harry more comfortable at first and then into it then _yeah_ , Eggsy will be fucking ready. Harry will make it good, no doubt about that. It's not a problem, he's just gotta be prepared.

Because Harry wants him fully sober.

And that's a bit daunting.

But yeah, taking it slow--Eggsy can wait.

Also, he’s not suffering that Great Hall oven bullshit so he trusts Harry to come back to him.

 

\--

 

Inside, Harry grabs a bottle of water and starts filling up a plate with food. Halfway through, Lestrade's wife finds him and he updates her on the dog crisis.

“At last,” Gemma sighs in relief. “A knight in shining armour--” She seems to make a move to go outside and Harry attempts to distract her with more conversation.

For all his efforts, he knows it’s a lost cause.

 

\--

 

Eggsy meets the dog’s longing gaze and he finds himself weak as fuck, drawn to the crowd of both adults and children gathered around these two men who shouldn’t probably be making some weird public service announcement in an event like this.

The dog waggles its tail as he sees Eggsy gets closer. Poor bastard’s being collared by Aunt Marge, he can’t get anywhere. Seems suffocating.

...Maybe Eggsy should steal him away. Ten years later, they can put Peter next to Mr. Pickle.

 _Fuck, that's creepy_ , Eggsy catches himself. It doesn't kill the thought though, or the happiness that comes with it.

“Actually, it more than the dangers of the internet,” One of the men say, fiddling with the satchel on his lap and pulling out a thin stack of papers. “We’ve been handing these papers out to news networks and the general public, especially parents. It’s very informative.”

People take one before passing it on around the crowd.

Eggsy perks up when he sees Harry with a bottle of water and a plate in his peripherals, but he can’t help but cringe when he sees Gemma a few steps forward, clearly startled by the commotion outside. Probably not how she envisioned her ten-year anniversary.

“ _‘Characteristics of a groomer_ ’?” A woman reads, absentmindedly passing Gemma the stack. Gemma looks stunned and automatically passes Harry a page.  
  
“Yeah,” One of the men says. “Dr. Hasaan here has more credibility with the subject, I’ll be handing it over to him.”

Dr. Hasaan stares down at his own piece of paper and clears his throat like he’s about to give a lecture, which is honestly preferable than reading. Dinner might be dying down for everyone else, but Eggsy’s a growing boy for fuck’s sake. He’s gonna eat everything on whatever’s on that plate Harry's gotten for him.  
  
“Basically, these predators are not who they appear to be, not at first glance,” Hasaan begins. “They’re going to be kind, they’re going to be good listeners. They will spend hours upon hours talking to their targets. They will empathise, and they’re going to sound sincere. _Very_ sincere.”  
  
Taking the plate from Harry, Eggsy frowns, intrigued. He hasn’t heard of this ‘grooming’ term at all. But going from the vibe of everything, this has something to do with Lestrade’s case. Considering Eggsy has that final stretch of assignment involving Cavendish, he needs to get all the information he can get.

Hasaan goes on, looking disgusted. “The target, the child, they will feel grateful to them, _humbled_ that they’ve been paid attention to. And that’s what the groomer _wants_. The predator aims to make you feel special and favoured by them. They will make you feel that you are the only person in the _world_ that makes them happy. Sometimes they’ll even use God’s name to reinforce that.”  
  
“God’s name?” One of the random men in the audience questions, confused.  
  
“Something like, ‘ _God has brought you here_ ’, ‘ _What a blessing from God you are to me_ ’, or ‘ _I have been waiting for God to bring someone like you to me or this ministry_ ’.”  
  
Eggsy shoves some more macarons into his mouth. That’s fucked up, but he was always suspicious of them church people, goddamn.  
  
“That’s an atrocity,” A woman mumbles. “It can’t be all from the church though, can it? How do these kids even meet this kind of person?”  
  
Hasaan shrugs. “There’s been many situations. Seemingly innocent--And that’s the issue. They seem trustworthy. It could be anyone.” Hasaan purses his lips. “It’s not entirely the parent’s fault, and it’s not the children’s either. Actually, children aren’t the only victims. This happens to adults as well. Groomers are very sophisticated. They lull people into feeling safe with them, safe enough to share secrets with. Hell, they’ll even share a secret or two with the intended victim, simply to get them to feel the need to give back--And if you think that’s bad, it’s not even close to the gifts.”  
  
“Gifts?” A man questions.  
  
“To cement the growing relationship, the predator will start giving them gifts," Dr. Hasaan explains, and Eggsy's stomach sinks. "It depends on circumstances, of course. It could be simple things, little things. But there was this one victim in particular--She was given a bedroom makeover, clothing, gifts of money, phone calls to her family overseas paid by her groomer.”  
  
People start to murmur and have their own conversations. “Damn,” A woman breathes out in disbelief. She clutches her child tight beside her.

Eggsy finds himself drinking at least half of the water bottle in pure thirst. The corners of his mouth are pulled down. All these things...it takes time. It _should_ take time. But Cavendish has given him gifts already. How long has Eggsy already known him? And how much in that amount of time has Cavendish given him stuff?

There were the gifts from Australia. Ones he hasn’t even opened. Fuck, where did Eggsy put them?

Not to mention the bloody green mobile.

It feels heavy in Eggsy’s pocket.

Christ. It can’t be a coincidence. For all that Eggsy constantly debates Cavendish’s innocence, the truth is simple. _No one_ ’s that nice.

Steeling himself, Eggsy purses his lips and gets to the point. “What about the touching?”  
  
Hasaan and the other bloke startle, staring at him. “Well, at some point in the process, the groomer will start with mild touches, very innocent--very...grandfatherly almost. A pat on the shoulder, a side-hug, a...special ‘look’ that exchanges between you. All of these will progress to full bodily hugs, to holding hands, to rubbing his leg against yours, to caressing your hand and your fingers, to putting his face close to yours. It can easily escalate into more severe violations.”  
  
Suddenly, Eggsy meets Lestrade’s gaze among the crowd. He holds it, trying not to let the queasiness show. Because Eggsy’s determined. He can do this. He can. And he hopes it shows when Eggsy nods at him.

“The next step would be to isolate the intended victim from family and friends,” Hasaan continues. “If it can’t be done physically, it will be done mentally, emotionally. Creating distrust between the victim and their loved ones is key. The groomer will also make them feel a certain kind of...worry, _fear_. It can come in many forms, but mostly it’s designed to make the person fear that one day the relationship will come to an end. This makes the victim want to work harder to please them.”  
  
Eggsy finds himself nodding. This is some deep informative shit. He wishes he’d brought the gold and chrome Nokia to record it. He needs to be prepared. He needs to listen to this shit over and over so he can’t be fooled again.  
  
Another woman shakes her head, appalled. “Bloody hell, that’s a tragedy.”  
  
“Worst part is,” Hasaan huffs, “No one realises it. It takes a while for the victims to come around. Sometimes they refuse to. One victim even described it as a soul-tie. She legitimately believed that she and the groomer thought as one person. He was the centre of her world. She defended him till the very end. He’s won her heart, won her trust, won her mind. Absolute loyalty,” Hasaan mutters ominously, looking haunted. “It’s difficult to persecute someone when the supposed victim is insisting ‘ _you don’t know him, you don’t know how sincere and kind and special he is, you don’t know his generous heart_ ’ and on and on.”

The bloke beside Hasaan rolls his eyes, but there’s something sad and bitter about it.  
  
After a lull in the conversation, one of the mothers point a fork at Lestrade. “You better catch this piece of shit.”  
  
Despite it all, Eggsy finds himself smirking, turning to Lestrade, affecting a serious look of sympathy. “Yeah, Greg, you better catch this piece of shit.”  
  
Lestrade narrows his eyes at him, and Eggsy can’t help a tiny chortle escape.

 _I’mma catch him for you, guv_ , Eggsy thinks with renewed vigour.  
  
It’s odd how he’s forgotten about Harry.  
  
He glances at him, but Harry’s staring down at the piece of paper, face blank.  
  
Eggsy gets this little ominous feeling in the pit of his stomach despite his attempts at self-control. Worried, he quietly offers the plate in case he wants something.  
  
But Harry only tilts his head, face unclear. Eggsy's brows furrow at the grip Harry has on the handout paper.  
  
And shit.  
  
It finally _hits_ Eggsy then.  
  
_Shitshitshit_.  
  
This whole fucking conversation.  
  
Fuck.  
  
Overwhelmed, Eggsy feels fucking _sick_. He’s having trouble taking in air and he hopes no one notices. Eggsy swallows through the lump in his throat, trying not to squirm where he fucking stands. His pulse is loud in his ears and fucking hell--  
  
Harry takes a step further back and Eggsy doesn’t know what to do.

Trying to keep his calm, Eggsy chews on another fucking macaron, head slightly bowed down to his plate. It only makes him want to vomit. He hopes it’s subtle, the way he’s looking at Harry through his lashes.

Fucking hell.  
  
He doesn’t know what the fuck to do.  
  
People are busy talking away, but Eggsy can’t hear much through his pounding heartbeat.

Harry’s taking a few more steps back until he turns, disappearing from the crowd.

Fuck.

 

 

»

 

 

Eggsy follows. He _has_ to.

Harry must be extremely feeling guilty and self-conscious right now. He might even disappear and never come back and Eggsy can’t have that.

Harry has gone around the property, near to where the north bridge is situated where it’s quiet and far away from people.

Eggsy tries to catch up, cursing those long fucking legs.

“Stop,” He demands once he’s sure they're far enough. “I said _stop_ ,” He orders.

Harry stops, back turned to him a few meters away.

Christ. “Look at me,” He implores.

Other than Harry’s hand briefly clenching the paper, he doesn’t move.

Eggsy tries to breathe, taking a few steps forward.

“Hey,” He begins softly. “It’s not like that.”

Slowly, Harry turns back, head slightly down.  
  
Fuck. Eggsy doesn’t know how to tell him, so he only looks at him in desperation and hopes that he gets it, hopes that he understands.

But Harry isn't even meeting his eyes.  
  
“It’s okay,” Eggsy tries. “It’s not like that. It’s okay--” He takes another step but Harry takes one back and-- “It’s _okay_. It’s just a coincidence, it’s not you. _You’re_ not like that,” Eggsy breathes out, almost hysterical at the thought. “I know you aren’t. It’s okay.”

In the tense silence, Harry stares at him. There’s something like awe there, Eggsy thinks.

“...You’re defending me,” Harry slowly says.

Eggsy scoffs, incredulous. “Well _of course_ I--”

He stops, because he immediately knows his mistake.  
  
There’s a subtle clench of Harry’s jaw before he looks away.

That’s exactly what Dr. Hasaan said he’d do.

Fuck.

 _Fuck_.

“It’s not--” Eggsy tries, desperate and miserable. He realises he’s fucking _shaking_. “You’re not--”

His breath hitches and he grinds his teeth together. 

“Look, it’s my fault,” Eggsy admits, voice steady, like his world isn't falling apart. “I--You know it was me, right? I was leading you on, I was just--I was messin’ about, Haz--” His voice fucking cracks and he hates it. He fucking hates it. “I was drunk. You were right. I’m sorry. It don’t gotta mean nothing. I was just--” He laughs and it sounds broken to his own ears. “I’m sorry, that was mean.”

Harry’s watching him, face blank. And it doesn’t matter if Eggsy hurts him or if Eggsy’s the fucking tosser in this story because if it means that Harry won’t feel bad about himself he’ll do it, he’ll fucking do it.

God--

Harry takes a step towards him, looking into his eyes. He’s still far, still too fucking far away, but Harry’s taking another step closer, and Eggsy drives the point home.

“It was _me_ , I was messing with your boundaries and everything, I--I wanted to see how far I could take it,” Eggsy tells him, ignoring his blurring vision, smiling sharply through gritted teeth. “I--couldn’t _help_ it, I’m sorry. You were really nice, and I just wanted to take advantage--”

Harry stops, three long fucking steps away. At this distance, he can't even reach for him if he tried, but Eggsy holds his gaze, head held high, tamping down the tremors. He tries to stand it, Harry’s eyes searching his. He likes to think he does.

But Harry blinks, brows furrowing--like he’s realising something that’s beyond belief.

In that moment, Eggsy knows.

Eggsy knows Harry fucking _knows_. Eggsy instinctively attempts to protest Harry’s realisation-- _I’m not in love with you_ \--He aims to make it as _nasty_ as he can make it sound, but on the first try he’s losing his fucking _breath_  as he opens his mouth,and even though he’s shaking his head and trying to scoff, his eyes are watering and his whole body is _trembling_.

From Harry’s expression, it’s like he _feels_ it in his own body. Harry takes a step back, horrified.

Desperate, Eggsy tries to save the moment, laughing abruptly in hysterics. "Hey, _hey_ \--It's not true, what you think you are. You know why? It's not like you want me, yeah? I mean, you got turned on, but who _wouldn't_ be? It's probably been a while since you've had any and _again_ I took advantage so--" Eggsy laughs again, but it falls short, and he feels parts of his face contorting in misery. "It's not like you _want_ me, yeah?" He prompts again, voice thick. "It's not like you even like me," He tries, willing him to answer.

_Come on, come on--Make it easy--Say I never mattered._

_It's not like you love me,_ Eggsy's about to ask, but he's not brave enough. He's _not_.

“...I’m sorry,” Harry murmurs quietly, rough and pained. The words cut through Eggsy and it _breaks_ him to pieces. “I’m sorry,” Harry says again, taking another step back before he turns around to disappear.

Eggsy wants to scream and beg once he gets over his frozen state, but someone else beats him to it.

"Bloody _hell_ , Greg," Gemma grinds out in a low hiss and Eggsy instinctively hides back in the shadows of the building at the nearing footsteps. "I asked for _one_ night. Not a day, not a full twenty-four hours, not even _twelve_ \--"

"Gemma--"

" _No_ ," Her voice breaks, _pitiful_ the way Eggsy feels. "What is wrong with you? _One_ night, and you-- _God_ ," She cries, pained, "This is all they're going to remember from this night, you know that? Greg and Gemma's ten-year anniversary--The _public service announcement_. Do you even fucking--God, I _hate_ you," She whispers, desperate and _guttural_ and scathing.

Eggsy has to cover his own mouth because he's trying not to cry the way she's crying.

He thinks he hates him too.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Chapter Epilogue

 

 

 

 _He thinks he’s in love with me,_ The words echo non-stop. _He thinks he’s in love with me._

Harry digs his fingernails into his palm as he clenches his hand into a fist.

 _And he thinks that because_ \--

Harry stares at the crumpled paper in his other hand.

_I’m nice to him. I give him attention. I give him whatever he wants._

Harry wants to vomit and he readily exits the cab once he gets to his street. His hands have these micro tremors and he’s tempted to kick the door down instead. As he struggles to put the key into the lock, he catches sight of a manila envelope hidden behind one of the plants.

Harry grits his teeth, making a grab for it.

In his office, he finally opens the bloody thing and ends up with a newspaper. All Harry can do is stare.

 

 

 

  

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

\--

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Once Eggsy’s mum is settled in her bedroom, he goes to his own room and stands there in silence.

Suddenly, he opens his rucksack, taking the vintage camera out. There's a desperate need for action and he's simultaneously loosening his tie and pushing the small curtains to to the side, letting the moonlight in.

His free hand hovers over his own neck before he braves taking the scarf off.

These marks, Harry's marks--They'll fade.

Eggsy catches his reflection in the shitty mirror propped up in the corner.

These marks will fade, he'll forget what they'll feel like, how sensitive they are to the touch and to simple things like air or cotton. But he won't forget what they look like.

He refuses to.

Turning the camera onto his neck, he partially unbuttons his shirt and suit, pushing them back.

He snaps at least half a dozen photos from several angles, ignoring his own shame.

He'll remember. He'll _never_ forget.

Once he finishes, he exits the flat and stands by the balcony, looking out into the dark night. There’s no use prolonging it.

Eggsy pulls out the green mobile and goes to speed dial.

As the line rings, Eggsy takes a deep breath, determined.

“ _Gary?_ ”

It must be that pill that he took earlier, but Eggsy's stone cold sober and he doesn't feel a thing. Once he lets himself remember what happened earlier, however, he doesn’t bother controlling the single sob that escapes. He pretends to try and sound normal.

“Cav, I’m sorry. It’s late, innit?”

“ _What’s wrong?_ ” The bastard actually sounds concerned and Eggsy bares his teeth.

“I’m just--I’m sorry," Eggsy emotes strictly by voice, his actual emotions already numb again. "When d'you think you'll be free next?”

He doesn't feel a thing but hate and determination.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


	32. 31

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> pt. 1

 

 

How stupid and _childish_ Eggsy was.

Eggsy gets it now, why Harry never wanted to give in.

He does.

He doesn’t have to think any more about it. The whole PSA disaster was enough.

It is what it is. That’s fine.

Eggsy will leave him alone. He has things to do anyway. Important things.

Cavendish said he’d get back to him with a proper time and date. Which means Eggsy has the time to prepare.

Hunting for Cavendish’s ‘gifts’ end up with Eggsy almost getting carpet burn on his knees as he struggles to reach for the box he just chucked underneath the bed all those days ago. It’s a small box, no bigger than his hand.

Leaning back against the side of his bed, Eggsy takes a breath and prepares himself as he stares down at it.

It’s anticlimactic when he opens it to find a keychain. A koala [keychain](http://i.imgur.com/vEukRFq.jpg). It honestly could’ve come in a smaller box, but Eggsy ultimately realises that underneath the white crinkly paper is a thin green notebook. It has a tiny paper stuck inbetween the band that secures it closed.

 

 

‘ _Noticed you wrote in a journal. A small one to carry around should help:)_ ’

 

 

Eggsy tries to resist the shudder of disgust but he fails as he stares at the smiley face. Another list of things to add to what has been ruined by Cavendish, next to bananas. He inspects the small notebook, turning it around. The brand ‘Moleskine’ is engraved in the back, but other than that there isn’t anything to do but open it.

As he slowly flips one empty page after another, he doesn’t really know what he was expecting. It’s just a notebook.

But he’s wrong. When he gets halfway through, he finds himself stunned at the sight, refusing to believe it.

It’s a fucking butterfly, dry or _decaying_ , Eggsy doesn’t fucking know. It just looks like someone caught the poor bastard unawares mid-flight and slammed the small notebook closed, _killing_ it. There’s a slight smear of what could be its blood or it’s insides.

Eggsy doesn’t fucking know.

He’s fucking _nauseous_. Why the fuck would anyone kill a butterfly just like that? Why would--

At the bottom of the page is a small note in cursive.

 

 

‘ _Cairns Birdwing._ _I got you one._ ’

 

 

 _Fuck_. Fuck, fuck, fuck, he wants to fucking _vomit_ with the rage and the disgust, driving him fucking mental. He doesn’t even realise he’s having difficulty breathing.

 

\--

 

Harry breathes again, but it’s clear from the doctor’s frown that it’s not enough.

“Agent Galahad,” The doctor tries, hesitant, stethoscope gracelessly hovering.

“Give me a moment,” Harry says, lips thin.

“...How many hours of sleep did you get?”

Harry’s expression doesn’t change.

“....Would you like to take a bit of a nap? It should settle your system for a bit. Your stats would improve on file.”

Merlin closes the door. “That’s unnecessary, Hansen. And some would say encouraging _cheating_.”

Hansen hangs his head down, chagrined. “Well, it’s not like it’s anything new.”

“I’ll be taking over with the vitals, thank you.”

“Right. Buzz me if you need me.” Hansen takes his chance to leave.

Harry simply gets his eyesight to focus properly to the far wall. It doesn’t quite work.

“Galahad.”

Blinking a few times, Harry’s eyesight ultimately focuses on Merlin a few feet away from him. He’s looking up from his clipboard, staring hard at Harry with a frown.

“...Yes?” Harry prompts for the lack of anything to say.

“Your schedule for the scar-removal isn’t until a few days. A pre-check up for the session is--”

“Scar-removal?” Harry asks, confused.

“...Yes, we talked about this.” Merlin waits, clearly expecting him to remember. But Harry doesn’t. He doesn’t. “Around two weeks ago, Galahad. Post Portugal assignment?” Merlin prompts carefully, pointedly glancing at his chest, partly revealed by the few unbuttoned buttons at the top. “You sustained numerous injuries, particularly on your torso. Power drill.”

Snippets of memories. The torture session, the leader walking in, Harry deciding it was time to get some work done, Harry cutting whatever body part he needed to access something on the upper floor.

“Ah,” Harry supplies, feeling himself smiling softly. “Yes. I remember.”

Merlin continues to stare at him before seemingly coming to a decision. “Go into one of the suites, Galahad. Go to sleep.”

Somehow, Harry doesn’t argue. He finds himself slow in getting his clothes properly sorted. Choosing to carry his suit jacket over one arm, he makes to leave, starting on his buttons.

“What’s with the marks?” Merlin suddenly asks.

“Marks?” Harry repeats, stopping by the door.

“On the back of your neck,” Merlin supplies neutrally. “Seems recent.”

Harry blinks, ignoring the way the marks suddenly feel _hot_ on the back of his neck. “Might have had a bit of a scuffle.”

“Is that so?” It sounds more rhetorical than anything. “Shall we get a DNA swab?” Merlin tilts his head. “In case we get a hit on the system, perhaps we can--”

“The _issue_ has been taken care of,” Harry responds, clipped, buttoning his collar and adjusting it properly. He puts on his suit jacket, making sure the marks are properly covered. “It won’t be a problem anymore.”

 

 

\--

 

 

Eggsy isn’t lying to himself when he says he’s got plenty of shit to do. Case in point, he’s at Pineapple Studios by half past seven in the morning. Yvonne actually looks surprised at seeing him.

“Well, well, well,” She begins.

“I can’t believe I missed you,” Eggsy greets, honest.

Yvonne scoffs. But she ultimately grins and Eggsy’s grateful for the distraction. The dance competition is looming over them and Yvonne is _merciless_. Eggsy stops thinking unless he has to and even then it has to do with his body movements.

Not about anything else.

Except, of course, when he inevitably gets teased about the marks on his neck. Eggsy suffers it, playing along until they all move on.

Eggsy does his best to the point that he already knows he’s going to be sore tomorrow before they even finish for the day.

It’s one in the afternoon and the group wants to go out for lunch together. Eggsy briefly hesitates, but the idea of being alone with his thoughts urge him to go. And so they all pack in during the tube’s rush hour and surface out in Ealing to walk to a gelato shop.

“You’ve all been very good today, children,” Yvonne says sweetly. “My treat.”

The group crows and Eggsy huffs. “Okay, but like, how many scoops though?”

“Unwin, asking the real questions!” Abdi crows.

Yvonne squints into the distance. “Three each?”

The group cheers again. Eggsy has to make an extra effort to look just as excited but he resigns himself to the end of the line. He’s bound to think about what happens after this.

He knows he has to get into a different kind of routine, so his daily schedule should be something like rehearsals from morning to the afternoon until work, then scheming for the Cavendish assignment for the rest of the day until their meeting is confirmed. That’s his main priority, which is why Eggsy’s officially put the massage apprenticeship aside for now. He can go back to it when this is all done.

Other than that, he should probably make time to contact Mycroft Holmes. It’s something he’ll hate, but it has to be done.

Eggsy needs to double-check a few things and--

“So what’s up with you?” Yvonne sidles up to him.

Eggsy blinks. “Dunno. Haven’t been gone that long,” He tries for humour. As much as it feels like forever, it’s only been less than a week since he’s rehearsed with them.

“No, but you’ve hardly replied to the messages. A lot can happen in a couple of days.”

Eggsy looks to the floor as he nods. “Yeah.”

Plenty can happen in less than twenty-four hours even. It’s almost funny how the world can fall apart in so little time.

“What flavour?” Yvonne asks.

“Huh?”

She raises an eyebrow. “Three scoops. They don’t have to be all the same flavour.”

Turning to the massive glass container of options, Eggsy tries to focus. There’s a ridiculous amount of choices. Eggsy glances at his groupmates’ selections out of curiosity and tries to match the colours they have to the flavour written on the glass. Rae’s fucking electric blue gelato is _bubblegum flavoured_ and Eggsy suppresses a cringe.

Fucking waste of money, that. Just chew the bloody gum after you put it in the freezer. Tsk.

“You can have more than three, I think,” Yvonne suddenly decides. “Your birthday’s coming up, after all.”

“Wait, what?” Parker perks up, the nosy bastard, catching the rest of the group’s attention. Eggsy can only stare back at Yvonne as the rest of the group tunes in.

“Mhm,” Yvonne confirms. “Sixth of September--That’s in, what, two-three weeks? Ryan said so.”

Fucking Ryan, the bloody nutter needs to stop getting high and revealing top secret information, what the fuck. Tsk. Eggsy ignores the excited ramblings of the group as they plan out his birthday.

“Oi, you lot, don’t even start. I’m poor, none of you are invited. It’s just a day. Nothing special about it. A _school_ day too,” He reminds them, turning to the server instead. “I’ll have err, strawberry,” Eggsy randomly chooses. “And--wait, is that an Oreo flavour, bruv? Yeah, mate, I wanna try that.”

“What else?” The server drones on.

“I don’t know,” Eggsy huffs, giving up. “Just gimme lemon.”

“Err, you mean the banana lemon cheesecake? We don’t got just the lemon.”

What the fuck, who doesn’t have basic lemon? That’s fucking _basic_. What the fuck even is a banana lemon cheesecake? Sounds fucking _atrocious_.

Eggsy tries to keep his calm. “Yeah, sure, whatever.”

 

\--

 

Harry wakes up from his nap disgruntled and mildly irritated.

Nevertheless, he powers through and gets his vitals checked in medical.

“Considerably better,” Hansen tells him. “Blood pressure’s still on the iffy side though--”

“I feel perfectly fine,” Harry says, neutral.

“Right.”

Harry bites the bullet and walks over to psych.

“What a surprise,” Morgause says, affecting an appropriate tone of astonishment.

Pursing his lips, Harry calls her out on her bullshit. “You have the whole department under surveillance. It’s your background screensaver.”

She rolls her eyes. “I’m not _Merlin_. Just the entrance-reception area.”

The conversation ultimately dies out and Harry regrets coming here just as he knew he would. There’s a certain tension in the atmosphere and Harry doesn't want to be the one to break it.

Morgause tilts her head slightly. She’s far too comfortable in her place across from him and his armchair.

“So,” Morgause begins. “I reviewed your feed.”

Harry doesn't even know what she's referring to for a few seconds. Her expression is expectant, like he might have something to say about that.

“Your mission. You fucked the liaison, didn't you?” Morgause prompts, brows slightly furrowed as she blindly writes on a notepad.

Harry has to close his eyes at the reminder, or more accurately the nausea and the remorse that comes with it. He can only give a non-committal hum for a reply.

“And how was that? Did you find the release you needed?”

 _Is your problem over_ , the question goes unsaid. But it's a proprietary question, it’s obvious in her tone. He doesn't want to give her the victory that his answer will bring.

“No,” He simply responds.

“But you knew that.”

“Perhaps.”

“Then why did you do it?”

The guilt worsens and he can feel the vein on his temple throb, feel the marks on the back of his neck _burn_.

“I wanted to believe otherwise,” He finds himself admitting, absently rubbing the scar on his wrist. She opens her mouth to speak but Harry interrupts her before she can say anything. “I know what I have to do to fix the problem.”

The silence lingers for a long time.

The corner of Morgause’s mouth tilts downwards and it almost looks like pity. “Haven’t you always?”

 

\--

 

Eggsy refuses to acknowledge the part of him that wants to take a few steps further past the bookshop to turn into the private mew.

Instead, he smiles at Clara, asks about her day, and moves on to do his job.

Throughout, he ignores the part of him that wants to reach out and figure whether or not the house is empty. Because it doesn't matter. That’s none of his business.

He's moving on. It's fine. It doesn't matter.

 

\--

 

Harry makes his way home late and he doesn't quite remember the actual process of getting there. Upon entering, he realises with a chill up his spine that he still has his glasses on.

His hand makes an abortive move to take it off because he remembers.

This house is empty. It _will_ be empty.

There’s no reason to keep up such a terrible habit. Things will return to the way it used to be before--

Before.

In his office, he resigns himself to another night of contemplation. He retrieves Morgause's notes from their session today. Harry had asked for it quietly, and there was a beat of silence before he told her it was going to be their last meeting. She ultimately ripped the paper off the notepad and handed it over.

It’s a jumble of shorthand notes, but what draws his attention is the line slightly larger than the others, the line that seems to be what most things are written around.

 

 

‘ _Making the same mistake more than once is a decision_.’

 

 

Harry stares at the note hastily written near it.

 

 

‘ _Finally realised_.’

 

 

The shame creeps slowly until it overwhelms him. Morgause knew all this time, long before he consciously did.

What is Harry to do with this knowledge?

He stews on that question for a while despite the seemingly simple answer that common sense possesses.

Harry should go to bed. It’s past midnight. What he does instead is brave his way out the hall, staring down the ominous door to the guest room.

 _Tomorrow_ , He tells himself, ignoring the fact that it’s already a new day. _Tomorrow, I’ll take care of it._

He doesn’t know how long he spends in the shower, but the lukewarm water he allowed himself turns cold. Passing through his wardrobe room to change into new clothes, the nagging idea doesn’t leave him as much as he tries to avoid it. He steels himself, gazing through the dim lighting to stare down at the items neatly arranged in one of his armoires, barely noticeable with the shirts in the way.

While Harry’s already put some of the things he’s bought for Eggsy in his room-- _The guest room, not Eggsy’s room_ , He reminds himself, _The guest room_ \--There’s still a handful that he hasn’t moved yet.

What in the world will Harry do with them now?

 

\--

 

Eggsy doesn’t know why he wakes up at five thirty in the damn morning. His body is sore from dancing the other day but he can’t fucking go back to sleep. Annoyed, he blearily changes into his sweats and grabs his rucksack, deciding to jog and run to Pineapple Studios in intervals.

Might as well.

Halfway through the five miles, he stops to watch the sunrise in Regent’s Park, ignoring how close the London Zoo is by focusing on the breeze. Overall, it takes less than two hours to get to his destination. Just in time, really. Yvonne’s already at the studio, waiting for the rest of their group.

“You’re very early,” She says, looking at him suspiciously.

He raises his eyebrows. “Oi, haven’t I been coming around at arse o’clock to get here?”

She squints some more, humming.

It oddly takes a bit of effort to chuckle, but he does it, shaking his head. “Well, you better get used to it,” He warns. “Ain’t got nothing better to do.”

He proves the point later, lazing about on the sofa. Max had called him pleading to switch out their schedule for the day, so he can have that day off he wanted later in the week. Eggsy doesn’t mind. It’s just that he feels like he’s wasting time.

Eggsy frowns at the ceiling, absently practicing his morse code taps on his stomach. He doesn't know what he’s doing it for, but it’s one more thing to master.

It’s a delayed reaction when he startles at the handful of candies dropped on his stomach.

“Oi--”

“Found a hidden stash of those sugar daddies you like,” Yvonne explains, stood behind the sofa and peering over at him.

Eggsy absently turns some of the lollipops over, wondering if he should resist and hand them back. The stuff he has at home was dwindling by numbers but--

It’s probably time to wean himself off.

“Why are you here, really?” Yvonne wonders, raising an eyebrow. He knows what she’s asking. It would be a lie to say it didn’t cross his mind when he tagged along with her as she went home.

Why wouldn’t Eggsy deserve a bit of fun? It could be stress relief. It could help him forget.

“To waste time,” He tells her simply. Yvonne raises her other eyebrow and he continues, “Also, to get some business done. I tried on the firefighter costume. It was _too_ legit.”

“That’s because it was,” She answers easily.

Eggsy huffs, absently unwrapping a lollipop. “It’s heavy. It’ll get in the way. Maybe with enough practice we could--But we don’t got that kind of time.”

“Figured.” She jumps over the back of the sofa to settle on the other end and Eggsy pulls his legs back for some space.

“We can incorporate it though. We could enter and have the whole thing on for the intro, then shuck it off along the way. Settle for the shirt and the trousers throughout,” He suggests.

“My thoughts exactly.” She grins, taking out her mobile. “Like stripping?”

Eggsy snorts, realising too late that he’s putting the lollipop into his mouth.

 _Tsk_.

Well, fuck, what would one lollipop hurt?

 

\--

 

Harry mindlessly crawls on his bed to reach for the drawer on his bedside table, making a grab for the buzzing nonsense that is his mobile.

“What.”

“ _Galahad,_ ” Merlin intones, “ _It’s three in the afternoon._ ”

Harry doesn’t even open his eyes. “Interesting.”

“ _Why, then, do you sound as if you’ve just woken up?_ ”

“Because I took a nine kilometre run in the crack of dawn as per doctors orders,” Harry provides, droll and miserable, keeping his eyes closed.

“ _Nine bloody kilometers?_ ” Merlin scoffs. “ _I told you that months ago, it was implied you were meant to work up to it to keep up with conditioning throughout your intermittent leave. I doubt you’ve been up to speed in that regard_. _That’s why I had said ‘_ power stroll _’._ ”

“Is there a purpose to your nuisance other than to be rude?”

“ _If you kept your glasses close by you would have known that Arthur’s been looking for you. Said something about September being awfully close. I assume you know what that means?_ ” Merlin asks, deceptively neutral.

Merlin fishing for information aside, Harry does.

“Yes. Set up a meeting.”

“ _Already have_.”

“Wonderful,” Harry grunts, turning his face against the pillow.

There’s a pause before Merlin speaks. An odd telling moment of hesitation that isn’t belied by his tone. “ _Arthur had made a quip about you turning into Lancelot, with you not keeping your glasses on like you used to._ ”

Technically, there isn’t a question. It’s a mere statement.

Unfortunately, Merlin continues on, casual. “ _Perhaps he’s wondering if you’ve found someone to settle down with._ ”

Harry’s hand grips the mobile without his permission. The swirl of guilt and misery and shame prompts him to open his eyes at last, turning back to the bedside table to grab at the small case in the drawer.

He opens the case one-handed and puts his glasses on, activating it live.

“As you can see,” Harry begins, working hard not to be short in his tone as he turns his gaze around his dim room, his empty bed. “I’m alone, as always.”

The beat of silence can’t possibly be pity. This is how it’s always been. This is how it always will be. They’re Kingsman agents, Merlin should know this already.

“Don’t be ridiculous, Merlin,” Harry adds needlessly. “When do I need to be in HQ? I need to take care of a few things before I leave.”

 

\--

 

Passing the time until he has to reply to Cavendish seems like forever. It’s almost been an hour but he can’t seem too eager. It’s a game, after all.

 

‘ _oH YEAH,_ ’ Eggsy begins to type, stone faced. _‘Did I ever thank you for them gifts? Guv they were great! Thank u so much!_ ’’

 

“New phone?” Yvonne asks, eyeing his green mobile.

“Nah,” Eggsy says easily. “Just a loaner. Getting my other one fixed.”

“But you have that weird gold chocolate bar,” She points out.

Eggsy presses his lips together. “It’s hardly functional, that one. Texting is a pain in the arse.”

Yvonne hums, seemingly accepting that answer as she blindly taps her own phone with one hand. The [song](https://drive.google.com/file/d/0B6aF7_1BmgYpLUtjTU5xZFEwdjg/view?usp=sharing) they’ll be performing starts to play and Eggsy tamps down a groan. It’s a great song, but considering he’s heard it a million times, he doesn’t want to hear it again.

He almost doesn’t catch the mobile when Yvonne throws it at him.

“I’ll be back,” She says, walking off from the sofa. “Look at the time you think you lot should start taking off the outer layers.”

Eggsy frowns, scrutinising the moving bar and the numbers as the song goes on, mentally going over their choreography. Ultimately though, the song ends. Eggsy doesn’t know what the fuck to do with her fancy phone. He finds himself looking around, nervous, before touching the screen.

Christ. Touchscreen mobiles. The future. Expensive.

Why Yvonne would just trust him with it is ridiculous. If he was honest, he’s always wanted to try one. He bites his lip, pressing the single button on the bottom. The screen changes to a place with plenty of icons and he swipes and swipes, getting the hang of it.

It’s a bit exciting.

Abruptly, an incomplete message appears on the top. He’s not really thinking when he presses the pop-up, it’s more of a reflex. He didn’t bloody think it would actually take him to the message itself, jesus. It’s from Alicia. Now he’s invading people’s privacy because unlike his mobiles it shows plenty of previous texts from both sides on the screen.

Shit.

Eggsy tries to keep an ear out, but he thinks Yvonne’s still looking for something upstairs.

_What if…_

Absently, Eggsy reaches into his pocket for a lollipop, unwrapping it mindlessly one-handed as he stares hard at the screen. Tsk. He puts the lollipop in his mouth and watches his thumbs hover over the virtual keyboard.

 

‘ _Wanna go out for dinner?_ ’ Eggsy starts to type, slow, momentarily proud of his achievement before he deletes it.

 

This is crossing the line, he’s sure--But just because Eggsy’s life is miserable, it doesn’t mean other people’s has to be. Eggsy tries again, typing as fast as he can before he can change his mind.

 

‘ _Wanna hang?_ ’

 

Eggsy gawks at the text. That’s _not_ what he fucking wrote. What the fuck? He’s so fucking sure he typed ‘bang’. He wants no bloody misunderstanding here. He’s gonna get Yvonne and Alicia together even if it kills him.

He quickly types again, furious, absently gnawing at the softening caramel in his mouth.

 

‘ _Wanna hang?_ ’

 

What the bloody fucking hell--

 

 **21.**   **08\. 2007 - Alicia:**

_It’s a date then:D_

 

Oh shit. Shit, shit, shit.

That’s a good thing, though, isn’t it?

He almost flinches when he hears the sound of Yvonne going down the stairs. Eggsy panics. How does he delete this? Is there a way to unread this message?

How will Yvonne take it?

She looks at him oddly, pausing in her mad flipping of notebook pages. “Did you decide on a timestamp?”

“Err--” Eggsy chokes abruptly, suddenly realising he has another lollipop in his mouth. _Fuck_ \--He coughs and coughs, clearing his airway and suffering Yvonne’s patronising stare. “Zero twenty-one? Or zero thirty,” He tries to answer anyway.

Fuck. So much for weaning himself off.

Maybe he should finish them all, that way he won’t have a choice in the end. There’s nowhere else to get them from after all. He’ll be forced to deal with it that way.

“There’s water in the kitchen,” Yvonne tells him, eyeing him with something that could be concern.

Eggsy’s actually touched. Still, he waves her off. “Yeah, I’m fine.” He puts the lollipop back in his mouth, ignoring his own disappointment.

Yvonne holds out her hand for the mobile. Eggsy tries to be casual as he returns it, distracting her with a question as she goes through her phone. “What were you looking for?”

The look she gives him is derisive as she holds out the notebook. “Choreo notes.”

“Cool, cool,” He fills the silence, watching her pause in her phone swiping. She raises an eyebrow and he immediately feels nervous.

“Did you just ask her what I think you asked her?”

“That depends, what did you think I asked her?”

Despite her serious expression, she snorts. “Leave it alone, Unwin.”

“But--She called it a ‘date’?” Eggsy tries.

“Yes, but girls who are friends also call each other ‘girlfriends’,” She tells him slowly like he’s stupid. “It doesn’t mean anything.” Yvonne immediately looks back down to the phone before huffing and showing him the new text.

 

**21\. 08. 2007 - Alicia:**

_Omg can I bring the Westminster boy I told you about?? He’s super cute!_

 

Eggsy feels like shit, but Yvonne’s expression is dry and resigned. He doesn’t want to look too close and see what he knows is there. There’s a shameful selfish part of him that feels a certain kind of relief that he’s not the only one miserable and he ignores it.

Instead, he blurts out in agitation something that’s been bothering him. “Why the hell does your mobile change words? I was trying to get you laid, why is it automatically cockblocking you?”

Yvonne laughs, absently writing into her notebook. “Cute. I can get laid anytime, you know.”

“It’s different,” Eggsy argues, but he manages to stop himself from continuing on. It’s different when you _more_ than like them, when you can see yourself spending the rest of your life with them. It’s different.

Yvonne hums, non-committal, but he thinks she gets it anyway. “It’s called autocorrect. Tries to predict the word you’ll use and automatically puts it there so you text faster. It’s even in the oldest of Nokias, but most people just ignore it.”

“Are you honestly telling me you use the word ‘hang’ more than ‘bang’?” Eggsy questions dubiously.

“No, Gary,” She begins, sweetly coy and savage. “I use the word ‘fuck’.”

He huffs, grumbling along. She’s got a point. Now he feels like a prude virgin who refused to use the word only to have it backfire on him.

“Now pay attention,” Yvonne tells him. “The main focus for tomorrow is to finalise the new integration of choreography for the stripping parts.”

“Tsk,” Eggsy clicks his tongue. “Don’t call it stripping, it’ll only be down to our shirts and trousers. Chill.”

“Are you nervous?” She teases.

“Tsk.”

Even though they spend the rest of the evening mostly talking about competition related business, it’s enjoyable somewhat. Eggsy walks on home feeling the refreshing breeze of sundown on his skin, feeling content with his life, resolutely ignoring some aspects of it. That’s the only way he’ll ever be content, anyhow.

His mobile abruptly buzzes.

 

 **21\. 08. 2007 - Banana Man:**  
  
_Pleased to know you loved them, Gary. I’m free this Saturday, if you are._

 

Eggsy slows to a stop in his walk, staring down at the green mobile. The cool air turns unforgiving, eventually making him numb.

 

\--

 

By ten past eight, Harry’s made some significant process in cleaning up a few things around the house. Specifically, arranging certain things he needs to get rid of, versus ones he’s allowed himself to keep.

Just when he slows in his attempt at organisation, he suddenly realises that he hasn’t eaten. He’s only been awake for a couple of hours and he has to be in HQ soon. From his watch, it’s clear he doesn’t have enough time for a proper meal.

But that’s fine, he’s survived longer without sustenance.

He frowns when his mobile buzzes, absently pulling it out and answering it. His world stops when Michelle Unwin’s voice registers to him.

Harry’s somewhat successfully managed to distract himself these past forty-eight hours and he’s been lulled into the paradoxical comfort that Eggsy wouldn’t dare make contact with him again.

But Michelle is something different entirely.

“ _...Is that okay?_ ” She asks, and he mildly panics, because he can’t quite rewind the conversation to figure out what it’s about in the first place.

“Pardon? Could you repeat that?” Harry gives up on his mental faculties. “I’m--”

“ _About Eggsy staying over?_ ”

His brain malfunctions at those four words over and over again, trying to analyse it in multiple different ways.

“I--” Suddenly, something takes over him, the kind of heartless efficiency instinctive in the field. “Of course.” Harry is composed. And yet he’s not in control. Not entirely. He feels as if he’s taking the backseat, observing, hearing himself say the words.

“ _Yeah?_ ” She checks, a hint of nerves there.

“I genuinely doubt he’d agree and go along with it,” Harry says, a hint of humour in his polite tone. “Nevertheless, my house is always open--” The internal struggle escalates. He doesn’t know who wins, but even then he knows it’s better for Michelle not to question a sudden change of heart. That’ll lead her to _think_. “I’ll prepare the guest room in case.”

His stomach sinks into the vile pit of despair. Michelle’s grateful tone of relief doesn’t help matters whatsoever. “ _Thank you so much--I’ve been waiting for him to come home so I can tell him._ ”

There’s an instinctive urge to ask where he is, how he’s been, to worry. But it’s only been two bloody days and Harry Hart is a grown man who needs to get his priorities straight.

“Mmm,” He hums instead. “Have a good night. I’m off to work now.”

With the line cut off, the resulting silence is all consuming and finds himself stopping in the hallway. Realising he’s already passed the foyer, he sighs as if that could ease the impending anxiety. He manages to stave it off as he walks up the stairs, as he stands in front of the guest room door.

When he opens the dimly lit room, his breath catches in his throat without his permission. His knees weakens at the sight of the bed and the sheets that’s been left disorderly.

 _Everything_ comes crashing down on him, pulse racing mercilessly, blood rushing in his ears--He almost fucked a fifteen year old boy, he almost--

Harry _shakes_ as his hands hover over the sheets he knows is dirty and soiled.

He almost gave in. He was close to being what he hated most. The kind of people he’s come across on the field and made _suffer_ before he finally killed them without hesitation. The kind of people he was _proud_ to get rid of.

His breaths go fast without his control, short and shallow as he finds himself kneeling on the floor, unable to handle the weight of it all. He feels sick and dirty and _contaminated_.

And Michelle had sounded _so_ thankful, so _relieved_ \--If only she knew. Nausea and despair swirls with fear and _revulsion_.

If she was there for that announcement, she’d have figured it out, she would have--

 

\--

 

Instead of surfacing out the tube station, Eggsy walks faster in the underground, powering through the massive crowd to get to the loo in time to fucking _vomit_. He sweats, clammy, as he heaves, pulse too loud in his ears, eyes stinging at the overwhelming force.

He tries to take in air, tries to calm himself down.

Using the sink’s running water to wash out the taste of bile and acid in his mouth doesn’t quite work. It’s still in the back of his throat.

He washes his face instead, as if that could help him. Eggsy averts his gaze, avoiding his own reflection. Popping in a gum ain’t an option ‘cos he doesn’t have any. He doesn’t want to waste spare change on buying some either. He fishes through his pocket, settling for a lollipop.

Fucking bizarre, that. Besides the shame, Eggsy honestly didn’t think he’d be scared of Cavendish or the danger he’s getting himself into with that assignment. He thought the anger was enough to push it away. That tends to happen every time the green mobile buzzes with a notification. Righteous anger pervades, drowning everything else.

But _fuck_ , Eggsy didn’t know what came over him--Well, the fear did. Along with the trepidation and the disgust. All likely at the prospect of having to meet with Cavendish soon, with a proper date and all.

Still, he was just sitting on the tube, staring into nothing, trying not to think about it too much when all of a sudden--Well.

Hopefully that’s a one-time thing. If anything, it’s better to have let it out now. It wouldn’t do good to have some sort of a breakdown when he’s actually on the job.

“Ah, Eggsy,” His mum greets distractedly from somewhere once he gets home. “Been waiting.”

He squints, peeking over to where she is in her room. The door’s partly open so he sees that she’s packing some stuff into an old duffel bag. He hasn’t seen that since they had to live in Anna’s place to get away from Dean and his goons. “What for?”

“Been meaning to talk to you ‘bout something.”

“Uhuh,” He manages, staring at the whole scene in suspicion. “Where we going?”

She stops, frowning to look up at him. “Oh, no, it’s just me--That’s the thing.”

“...What thing?” Eggsy asks, uncomprehending.

“Look, this might seem sudden, but it really ain’t,” She begins. “I told you about applying for them jobs right?”

“...Yeah..?”

“Well, I didn’t give you too much updates on that front, ‘cos, well, you know, it might’ve just end up to be disappointing.” She laughs a little. “But I’ve not only gotten a few calls back _and_ passed a few rounds of interviews, I got the bloody job!” She announces, beaming.

“Wow, mum,” Eggsy starts, stunned and genuinely happy for her, if not proud. “What’s the job?”

“Hotel concierge--I mean, well, I still got to train for it first, but, yeah--”

“Hotel concierge,” Eggsy repeats. “Wow,” He says again, because really, there’s not much he can say at the moment. “That’s--different.”

“I know!” She gushes, clearly excited and nervous. “It’s at a fancy hotel too, so like, yeah, training.” She gestures to the duffel bag.

Eggsy still somehow has difficulty processing the whole thing. Like, it’s a great opportunity, don’t get him wrong, but...that’s exactly why it’s…

“They decided to give me a chance,” His mum says, looking at his probably dubious expression. He didn’t mean to slip and show it just like that, because he’s proud of her, he is, but--She said it was a _fancy_ hotel too. His mum is great and fantastic, no doubt about that, but the kind of jobs she’s been working these past couple of years aren’t really the kind to get her hired on the fancy hotel level.

That’s just the reality of it.

“Are you sure this is legit?” He finds himself asking carefully.

She huffs like he’s the one being silly. “ _Eggsy_ , I’m sure.” He doesn’t want to be an arsehole and grill her about it, but he’s just worried. She sighs at his expression. “They said that they wanted to give people a stepping stone and change careers or something like that. It’s legit, trust me.”

Mulling it over, Eggsy lets himself believe it for a moment. His mum, happy with a stable job she’s been trained in properly, probably wearing a nice uniform she can take pride in. Maybe she’ll even get the chance to glam it up with some fancy make-up, the kind she didn’t have the time and proper motivation to put on before. She’d love that, he thinks, getting some time to focus on herself and earning a living at the same time.

Eggsy smiles softly.

Maybe life ain’t so terrible after all.

“Where this training at?”

“Around Whitechapel--”

“Whitechapel?” Eggsy balks. “What you packing for then? That’s less than an hour away by tube.”

“Yeah, but they gave me the option of doing the training over four weeks versus a concentrated version on-site for two,” She explains. “And I’m just really excited to get this going, you know? To move on, get settled with this job.”

Eggsy finds himself nodding. Maybe if this job of hers pays well, she can quit looking for other shitty part-time stuff and suffer less. “Yeah, I get you,” He says, soft at the thought of her only having one job and being home more often. “Can I visit or what?”

She snorts. “You gonna miss me?”

“No,” Eggsy scoffs. He’s fifteen for fuck’s sake. “Don’t be ridiculous--I can see you off though, right?” He checks. Quinlan’s traumatised him enough about human trafficking back in the Wetherby days. “Just in case the place is skeevy and all that, I have to see for myself.”

His mum smiles at him. “Alright.”

“When you leaving?”

“Tomorrow late afternoon--So, you know, I should be back before your birthday if all goes to plan.”

Eggsy rolls his eyes. “S’just a day. School also starts that week. If we _have_ to celebrate, let’s just wait for the weekend,” He tells her. “Don’t worry about it, yeah? Just focus on what you need to do. I believe in you, mum.”

She huffs at that, shaking her head slightly. “That’s just one of the things--I’m more worried about _you_.”

“Me?” Eggsy scoffs. “Mum, honestly, you’ve worked so much I don’t even see you all day sometimes.”

“That’s different,” She insists, a bit of hurt in her expression. “It’s different when I’m not going to be here at all.” There’s that _look_ on her face and Eggsy really doesn’t want to acknowledge it as _emotional_. That way lies madness. He’s weak for that shit and he tries to avert his gaze.

“Mum, come on, I can handle myself.”

“I know you can--Just, I worry, you know?” She persists. Eggsy accidentally looks at her and god--"How can I fully focus on the training with that?"

What the fuck, this manipulative mum rubbish is _too_ strong. Not that her worry isn’t real but--"What d’you want me to do about it?” He complains. “I’ll text you every day and--”

“Just stay over at Mr. Hart’s, alright?”

Eggsy stops, uncomprehending.

“What?”

“You’ve been there before anyway and he said it was fine--”

“No he didn’t,” Eggsy immediately counters, trying to settle his heartbeat. “When?”

“I asked him during the party,” She explains, a little impatient. Well, shit. That conversation must’ve been before everything fell apart. Harry wouldn’t have agreed to something like that--He doesn’t really want Eggsy around, he was just being polite. “Come on--I trust him when it comes to you, plus--”

Eggsy’s stomach sinks with deeper despair. God, Eggsy suddenly realises how different his mum would feel if she heard the public service announcement at Lestrade’s party. There was a fifty-fifty chance she would have connected the dots if she did and things would be fucking _terrible_.

The relief at such a fucking luck is overwhelming. It could _easily_ just have gone the other way, Eggsy can see it now. God, fuck--

“Eggsy, are you listening to me?”

“Mum,” Eggsy tries, exhaling.

“I don’t want to have to worry about you, okay?” She meets his gaze straight on and Eggsy feels vulnerable. “Maybe you don’t have to stay there all the time, but, I don’t know, check in with him, maybe?”

Eggsy opens his mouth, but he doesn’t know what to say.

Her brows furrow and she frowns at him. “What’s wrong?” She scrutinises him. “Don’t you like him?”

The fear of her train of thought starting to go the _opposite_ direction makes him sputter. “No, I love him--I--” _Fuck_. Fuck, fuck, fuck. “He’s done great things for us, which is why we shouldn’t bother him no more, alright?” He tries to sound reasonable.

She sighs. “Just think about it, please?”

“I’ll _think_ about it.”

 

\--

 

“Galahad, I was about to send a search party,” Arthur greets, humour in his tone. Harry shouldn’t find it smarmy.

“Mmm, well. I’m here now,” He says needlessly, sitting on the chair without invitation.

Arthur raises an eyebrow. Harry doesn’t particularly care.

“You’re late, Galahad,” Arthur begins, deceptively casual. “Care to share your reasonings?”

Harry absently rubs his thumb against the pads of his fingers. “I’ve been known to be tardy, Arthur. I wouldn’t want to concern you with an uncharacteristic change of habit.”

Blinking, Arthur actually seems amused. “Very well.” He seems to be waiting for Harry to start the conversation.

Frankly, he’s not in the mood for spy games. “With all due respect, sir, you called me to this private meeting.”

“Yes, but what for, are you aware?”

Harry feels like a child being called into the headmaster’s office. “I presume it’s to do with the long-term mission,” Harry drones. “It's not as if I’ve caused any havoc as of late.”

“Mmm, yes.” Arthur nods. “You’ve asked to delay it until the second week of September. Any changes?”

Tilting his head, Harry watches him. It’s a facetious question. “Even if there were, I’ve run your patience thin enough, I doubt you’d take kindly to a rescheduling.”

Arthur smiles. “Indeed. Merely making sure, Galahad.”

“In fact,” Harry announces, “I’d like to get briefed on some initial matters. I’ve more to prepare with my personal assets and such, but it wouldn’t hurt to get in the mindset.”

He thinks there’s pleasant surprise on Arthur’s face. Harry can’t dwell on it too much, his eyesight has trouble focusing properly and he’s tired of fighting it.

“Once you are finished with all your preparation, you will report to me, simple as that,” Arthur begins. “You will be given the first of many assignments regarding this operation and you will be introduced to a specially selected group of people who will be in the know. You will also meet your new handler, in addition to--”

Hmm. Just as he thought. Merlin’s not involved. Arthur continues to speak and Harry makes an effort to listen on the surface. In reality, however, his mind wanders.

It’s fine, surely he can rewind this conversation later.

He doesn’t necessarily think of something specific. He feels himself nod on certain points, meeting Arthur’s eyes for show before staring at something different again, giving the proper expression that he’s listening in.

“Tensions in Pakistan has been building all year. There _will_ be a transition--”

Harry refrains from outwardly sighing. Tensions are always building in Pakistan. Tensions are always building _everywhere_. This is why they need non-white agents. People all over the world are already suspicious of themselves, much less a white foreign man entering the picture and charming everybody. He’s bound to get shot at plenty, Harry can already see it.

Hidden from Arthur’s view, Harry’s fingers continue to rub themselves against his palms. The inevitable returns to him in form of worry. It was late when Michelle had called him and yet she said she was still waiting for Eggsy.

What in the world could he be doing out so late?

Fingernails dig into his palm. He doesn’t want to think about him, but the worry is there, persistent. Especially with the article from _The Sun_ about that paedophile swanning about.

Revulsion and fury combine at the thought. The Met is keeping an eye on Collins-Rector--But why in the world would they let a man with such a record be around schoolboys? Harry is _incensed_. If the reports are true, he’s inviting them over in his posh Kensington flat. Of course they’re coming over with their _perceived_ free will, but that doesn’t mean it’s _right_.

Those children are in danger.

He has to look into it. He has to.

He can’t settle for doing nothing anymore the way he has been these past two days. He’s had enough down time.

Hesitation, however, makes itself known. The fact is, that’s not his job. Collins-Rector is a public figure, already under surveillance by the Met. Surely they’re not that incompetent and made powerless by bureaucracy nonsense. There’s many people like Collins-Rector--Is Harry meant to shoulder the responsibility of getting rid of them all?

He’s not a vigilante as much as he lets Amelia Hooper believe it. Being a vigilante is problematic for numerous reasons, the main one being it always somehow _backfires_. There’s a good rationale behind Kingsman’s ‘No Interference’ rule, at least outside of official work.

 _I’ve killed plenty of public figures before_ , He argues with himself regardless. Even then, he knows logically that he’s had permission to do so, with statistics and heavy analysis from at least half a dozen people behind such decisions.

_Did you have permission when you nearly killed and tortured Dean Baker?_

Harry grits his teeth. That’s different.

It’s always different when it comes to the safety of Eggsy Unwin. Collins-Rector is into younger children. Eggsy, while fifteen and within the age range, can look far older with the things he’s been through and the physicality that he embodies as a self-defence mechanism.

The two shouldn’t even cross paths.

That doesn’t mean he shouldn’t care simply because it doesn’t involve Eggsy, but he’s been in this line of work for a very long time, and he’s resigned himself to certain things.

Things like he can’t save everybody. He’s learned that lesson with shame, feelings of inadequacy, and sleepless nights.

But--

 _Henry_ , a voice in him whispers, cruel and goading. He thinks it sounds like Eggsy breathing against his skin in an attempt to drive him insane.

Fear runs up his spine, making him sit up straighter.

Who is Henry?

“Harry,” Arthur says, eyebrows raised.

“Sir,” He replies on automatic.

“Do you understand what you must do?”

Harry meets his gaze. “Absolutely.”

It’s only when his fingers continue to rub against his palms, relentless, does he fully realise why it’s becoming stickier and stickier. It’s not only sweat, no, it’s Eggsy’s _come_ , the dried flakes having transferred from his handling of the dirty sheets into the washing machine before he left. Harry didn’t wash hands.

 _Fuck_.

Gritting his teeth, Harry holds his head high. “Waiting for departure, I’d like to take on a few quick missions to get back into the motions.”

 

\--

 

It’s not a good idea. Eggsy hasn’t thought too deeply about it and for good reason. But now with what his mum told him, he’s forced to.

His fingers absently tap against his stomach.

It’s late and this whole thing should be a no-brainer. He should say no and resist. For both his and Harry’s sake. It’s helpless, remembering the anguished expression on Harry’s face that night.

Eggsy should stay away. He’s resigned himself to that.

Come to think of it, maybe this isn’t as serious as he made it all out to be. At school when he’d seen couples all lovey-dovey, Eggsy’s always cringed internally. Even when they seemed to mean it, with their ‘monthsaries’ and flowers and stupid looks of breathless awe. He’s looked down on them. He’s not gonna lie about that.

He’s never doubted those people wouldn’t last. Even if they’d planned for the same universities together, even if they had their future kids named. If anything that just made him even more sceptical.

Because they’re _young_.

 _Eggsy’s_ young. He’s only fifteen.

Yet he loves Harry. He _thinks_ he does. Why?

Because Harry’s nice, because he listens, because he seemingly cares--And as he lists out the reasons, he realises with despair that it all sounds similar to Dr. Hasaan’s words.

And yes, Harry buys him things but--It’s not like that.

Even as he refuses to believe it, he _knows_ he’s being stupid. He _has_ to consider the possibility. Not getting it out of the way would only fuck him up in the future. He wants to be able to look back and know that he thought it through, that he made up his mind with proper effort. Talking to Quinlan of all people would help, but that's not a fucking option. The shame and regret is too much and he doesn't want Quinlan to think badly of Harry either.

Harry’s in his life because of the guilt of getting Eggsy’s dad killed. Or so that was the case at first.

The Imperial War Museum meeting, while admittedly suspicious, could’ve been a one time thing. Nothing happened then. If they never met again, it wouldn’t have been a big deal--Eggsy’s churning stomach aside.

Admittedly, the Tesco fiasco was incredulously too much of a coincidence. But he’s willing to believe that’s just what it was. Again, nothing sinister happened. In fact, Harry had taught him certain values that’s changed the way he goes on about things. He acknowledges that.

The meetings in Hyde Park, those were--

Eggsy covers his face with a hand, unwilling to go any further. He doesn’t want to put dark motives on Harry’s part. Looking back on the meetings, he now _knows_ it looks bad. Especially after the first one. Christ.

It’s a classic PSA scenario, isn’t it? Going to the park, being fed, being given things. Jesus. And Eggsy didn’t even _realise_ that. This is why he doesn’t just get to refuse reality. For some people that same situation didn’t end well for them.

He was given a _mobile_ , for fuck’s sake. A direct contact to Harry with no one else in the know.

Despite that, Harry had disappeared and didn’t come back for almost two years. He came back trying to ‘help’, being annoyingly _noble_ about it. How Eggsy ended up in this mess, god--Even as he asks ‘how’, he still feels he should’ve seen it coming. He feels _stupid_ and he feels like he should've been _smarter_ than that. Eggsy was so wrapped up in it, in _their_ world.

For all of Eggsy’s quips and advances though, Harry was genuinely oblivious to most of them. That's fact, and Eggsy won't budge on that. All those frustrating repressed moments where Eggsy had gotten _nothing_ in response, fuck, that shit was real. It wasn’t until recently that that had started to change. Still, Harry had _resisted_.

That’s the most important part.

And yeah, it could be part of some reverse psychology bullshit. It definitely _could_ be if the accusations were true--But it isn’t.

It isn’t.

Harry, to the rest of the world, is some sort of outstanding gentleman of society. People probably have an idea what he’s like upon meeting him, the way people naturally judge each other. They’d find him posh and classy and secretly uptight and they wouldn’t like him, not really.

Even then, they’d _still_ put him on a pedestal. They’d have _expectations_.

None of those include the dead dog in his loo, the insects on the walls, the mixed vinyl collection, the small bar in his living area, and the bizarre habit of putting butter in his coffee.

 _At least when he used to drink coffee_ , A part of Eggsy points out guiltily.

The point is, all those expectations...they probably alienated Harry in some way.

Eggsy’s never really seen Harry with anyone else. Other than Mycroft Holmes or the lady in the suit or Lestrade. All Harry does is work.

But all these months, he’s been spending time with Eggsy, and Eggsy’s admittedly been persistent. Coddling, almost, in his _caring_.

Harry would’ve no doubt appreciated that on some level. Of course Eggsy wore him down. He can’t quite help remembering Harry’s anguished look the last time they saw each other.

If Harry ever had...feelings for him, or _anything_ close to that, this is ultimately the reason, isn’t it?

Harry was lonely. Eggsy wormed his way in, and Harry _fell_ for it.

And now Eggsy’s left him feeling _dirty_.

In the silence, his pulse is too loud in his ears. He tries to swallow past the thickness in his throat as he stares at the ceiling. The absent-minded tapping of his fingers on his stomach doesn’t lessen the gut-wrenching sensation. It’s then he ultimately realises that he’s been tapping his fingers in morse on repeat.

‘ _Fuck, fuck, fuck_ ,’ His fingers tap on.

His breath hitches and he almost laughs hysterically until he remembers it’s almost midnight.

Eggsy gives into writing in his journals instead.

 

→

 

“You didn’t kill anybody,” Merlin utters, staring at him.

“Mmm,” Harry hums, holding back his displeasure from tainting the sound. He catches Merlin’s gaze and finds himself affronted. “I’m a man of self-control, didn’t you know?”

Merlin’s eyes narrows further.

Harry sighs. “It was an intel mission--Mostly. Russia has been doing flight exercises in the south of the country and in Kazakhstan this past week. Strategic bombers, tactical exercises,” He drones on. “Arthur wanted first-hand reliable intel. Didn’t want hearsay easily taken from other agencies. The usual.”

“Are we getting into another Cold War?” Merlin mutters, successfully distracted and tapping on his clipboard.

“No,” Harry answers, bored.

Merlin looks at him oddly again. “Long-range patrol flights of strategic bombers were suspended in ninety-two after the collapse of the Soviet Union.”

“Well, if I’d _gotten_ the approval to assassinate Putin in the dawn of the twenty-first century, _perhaps_ \--”

“Tsk, not this again.” Merlin rolls his eyes and changes the subject. “No extensive injuries this time. I suppose that’s progress.”

Harry grunts and silence pervades.

“...What are you waiting for?” Merlin questions. “Go home.”

Harry had expected another mission. A mission of a more...higher calibre. Merlin raises his eyebrows. Pursing his lips, Harry puts on his suit jacket, making his way to leave.

“Don’t forget your appointment on Sunday,” Merlin calls out.

Stopping by the store, he picks up a few quick meals to sustain himself inbetween missions. That is, if he doesn’t succeed in staying in HQ altogether. Apprehension is a strange feeling that accompanies him on his way home. It’s only when he realises he has his glasses on again that he realises why.

But the house seems empty.

As it should be.

Michelle had mentioned she was leaving around five. It’s already half past seven in the evening, thus, the outcome is clear. Eggsy won’t be staying after all. Smart boy. Very wise.

If trust issues keep him safe, then that is the way it has to be.

Harry keeps his glasses on. When he opens the fridge to put in his new purchases, he finds himself cataloguing the rest of the food he still hasn’t gotten rid off. He sighs, wondering how he can sneak this into the Unwins’ fridge. After all, Eggsy’s the one who put these in the trolley. Harry won’t have the time nor the motivation to cook these things over the next few days.

“Merlin,” Harry utters. “Do you want a home-cooked meal?”

For a moment, there’s only silence. The rare instance he keeps his glasses on to have some company and he doesn’t get it. Which should be a good thing. It means paranoia is just that and Merlin has fallen off the habit of monitoring him after all.

“For fuck’s sake,” Merlin hisses through. “Interns heard that. Are you trying to give them the wrong idea?”

“Perhaps you shouldn’t monitor me on down time,” Harry suggests coolly. After all, the only way for people to have heard him means that he was one of the feeds on the main screens of the workroom. “Besides, it’s nothing the hellspawn hasn’t already brought up.”

“Christ. Must you remind me?”

“How do you feel about bœuf bourguignon?”

“Is it laced with arsenic?” Merlin sneers.

“Some men can’t hold their arsenic--But you can,” Harry points out, willing to be in his good graces. He plans to go back into HQ bearing gifts in exchange for a proper mission.

“Why are there juice-boxes in your fridge?”

Harry pauses, gaze falling to them lined up on the fridge door. “Would you like some? They were on sale.”

“I’m a grown man, what in the world are you asking me that question for?”

It’s tempting to point out that Merlin’s fridge once had them for Quinlan. He refuses to believe Merlin’s never tried one when no one was looking. Nevertheless, he keeps his mouth shut and prepares the ingredients.

He already knows the serving size will end up enormous, even with him planning to take most of it to HQ. Which is fine. He’ll save a portion or two for himself as leftovers.

“The meat is going to be tough,” He warns. “I’m not waiting five hours for this process.”

“Tsk--Some things are worth waiting for, Galahad,” Merlin grouses. “What are you in a hurry for?”

The itch for a mission is a nostalgic sensation that hasn’t graced him in a very long time.

“I’m a very impatient man, didn’t you know?”

 

>> 

 

The stew’s been on for thirty minutes and Harry is restless. He’d clean up around the house some more but suddenly turning off his glasses after all the progress of getting used to it again would be a form of relapse. It also might be suspicious to Merlin. Not that the man isn’t busy multi-tasking a dozen things at once, but Harry doesn’t want to risk it.

“For fuck’s sake, don’t just stare at it, do something else,” Merlin grouses absently. “Go take a shower or something.”

“Why, _Merlin_ , if you wanted to see me naked again--”

“Don’t flirt with me, I get hives. Along with an extra dose of paranoia.”

Harry rolls his eyes. “Very well, I’m off.”

As much as Merlin probably hopes the stew would cook longer, it takes eleven minutes for Harry to take a shower and be fully dressed in a clean suit. It’s not as if he’s had to wash off blood. Still, he doesn’t feel as clean as should be. He might not feel that way for a while.

Sunset’s already begun by the time he goes downstairs to take care of the pressure cooker and put it off the heat. As he fills a small container with the stew, he forgoes the task of transferring the rest into a larger one. He doesn’t have enough patience nor does he wish to do extra dishwashing. Instead, he’ll take the whole damn thing.

After putting away the small tupperware in the fridge, it doesn’t take long for him to uncover the luxury wicker briefcase he was given as a gag present many years ago, hidden deep within the cupboards.

Being unused, it’s mostly covered in dust and Harry has to irritably give it a quick wipe down. Why anyone could ever think to give him a large briefcase-style picnic basket is a concept beyond the realm of common sense. Nevertheless, it’s likely the only way to carry a pressure cooker with dignity--By concealing it, that is.

He props the briefcase up and opens it to find the ridiculous amount of items inside. Impatient, he takes them all out, including the plates and wine glasses among other things securely strapped on the opening side. Harry hastily places a pot coaster over the corduroy fabric before gingerly sliding the pressure cooker inside.

He cautiously attempts to close the briefcase. While it’s a close shave, it _fits_ , the latch closes, and thankfully that’s that.

Powered by a bizarre urgency to leave, he decides to abandon the items on the kitchen counter haphazardly and makes his way to the foyer with the briefcase. He’s quickly putting on his shoes when he almost startles at the knock.

At first, Harry does nothing, willfully attributing it to hallucination. But the second knock, he feels it go _through_ him, and he finds himself gritting his teeth.

It’s good that he didn’t turn his glasses back on, because the door opens to Eggsy Unwin.

They stare at each other for what feels like an eternity.

“You knocked,” Harry manages, ignoring the unmatching scarf on Eggsy’s neck.

“Um, yeah--Yes. That was the polite thing to do.” Eggsy nods, still holding his gaze. His hand is gripping at the shoulder strap of his rucksack. Harry’s stomach sinks at the sight.

“You’re staying over,” He feels the need to check, just in case Eggsy’s not in the right state of mind.

“I won’t be a bother,” Eggsy begins, head held high. “I’ll stay out of your way. I won’t even be here most of the time. I’m busy, I have stuff to do.”

The sun is minutes away from fully setting and the wind is already colder. Now isn’t the time to get into a full on discussion about how preposterously foolish Eggsy is being. Harry nods, stepping out of the way. “So do I. I’m off to work.”

Eggsy enters confidently, passing Harry by--Dangerous. Brazen.

“Mr. Unwin,” Harry finds himself calling to him, shocked at his own _audacity_ for initiating a conversation.

Eggsy has his back to him, frozen. He turns slowly. “Yes, sir, Mr. Hart?” Eggsy responds respectfully. The worst part is that it’s _earnest_.

Regret and despair floods him. Nevertheless, he pushes through, businesslike. “There’s food in the fridge. Help yourself to it, the one in the container with the blue lid. It’s freshly made.” Harry presses his lips together. “Please lock the door after I leave.”

“Yes. Of course.”

There’s a beat of silence before Harry moves to close the door on himself and--

“Be safe, yeah?” Eggsy suddenly says, and it leaves Harry _gripping_ the handle of the door before he closes it fully, slightly louder than it should be.

 

\--

 

Eggsy tries to breathe normally after his outburst. He doesn’t really succeed, but he should’ve expected that. The house seems dim and cold as he makes his way through and up. He ignores that, along with the feeling that the insects on the wall might just have a different meaning now.

He opens the door to his room instead.

Eggsy stops at the sight of a neat generic room, largely unfamiliar at first glance. The sheets are different--Of course it is, _fuck_ , Eggsy came on them and he didn’t even clean it up. Jesus fucking christ.

Eggsy covers his face like that could stop the heat of shame and despair. Brave enough to unhinder his vision, he looks again. The furniture is the same. His books are still here. The desk is neater on the surface, previous stuff put away. Eggsy sets his rucksack on it and moves to gingerly sit on the bed, sighing.

He can’t help but cover his face again as he stews in the silence. He has to remind himself that he’s here for a valid reason.

Pulling out his mobile, he texts his mum real quick just to keep her updated. He made sure she had everything she needed in her bag and tagged along with her, checking out the place she was going to stay at and train in for two weeks. So far everything had seemed legit, but he took his time.

Which is why when he gave in and packed his shit for his stay at Harry’s house, it also took a while. Eggsy needs to make a couple of things clear. He will take the chance when he’s not busy and staying out of Harry’s way. He’s left a few of his stuff here too. When he had packed his rucksack the night of Lestrade’s party, he wasn’t exactly planning to go back to his mum’s place.

Eggsy freezes, slowly looking up to the place where he last saw Galahad. He immediately scans around, but he doesn’t find him.

 

\--

 

“Stop!” Mordred holds his hand out, interrupting Merlin and the half a dozen people crowding around the counter. “Did anyone... _check_ it?”

“Perfect timing, Mordred, I volunteer you to a taste test,” Harry bares his teeth in a smile.

Mordred laughs nervously. “I’m not actually hungry. Everyone enjoy themselves.”

Merlin raises an eyebrow at Harry. “You can’t bribe me if I’m dead, you do know this?”

Lancelot passes by the common room in his sweats, double-taking at the group. “Is that--Is that what I think it is?” He gapes in awe, coming closer to openly gawk at the picnic briefcase. Harry turns away as if that could preserve his dignity. “I thought you threw that away immediately! I never saw or heard of it again! Like you during secret santa exchanges after that year--”

 _I knew it_ , a spiteful part of Harry hisses. _It was him. Cheeky bugger._

“I can still poison the food,” Harry reminds them, unamused. He eyes the uncovered pressure cooker, mentally calculating how many people can consume the lethal amount and fall victim to it. There’s a vague moment of pity for the overworked employees on the lower chain of command, but that’s Merlin’s fault. He insisted he couldn’t finish it alone and opted to _share_ it.

But then again, suppose this is Harry’s charity act for the year. After all, the mess hall is further away for some departments, that’s why most support-level Kingsman employees resort to common rooms all over HQ. Such places--this [particular](http://i.imgur.com/nstA4r1.jpg) one being overdecorated with elegance--have an ergonomic area for sustenance largely stowed away in the corner. It’s complete with the basic appliances such as refrigerators, microwaves, kettles, and sinks. Necessary items such as plates, utensils, and cups--disposable or otherwise--are stored in the cupboards, among other things.

Admittedly, some common rooms are better than others, but Arthur likes to keep it that way. He prefers to have all the employees flocking to the mess hall where the proper surveillance is. Harry doesn’t have a problem with that, but with how more and more people currently peek their heads into the common room, sniffing the air, he finds himself bizarrely _charitable_.

Sickening.

“Do go on,” Harry invites regardless, gesturing to where the uncovered pressure cooker is being warmed up over the electric hob on low heat. “I can’t promise it’s any good, however.”

“Such modesty!” Lancelot claps his shoulder, earning a deceptively mild stare from Harry. The hand leaves his shoulder as Lancelot ushers people along instead. “Don’t want you people going hungry now. Go on.”

As more people busy themselves lining up for food, Lancelot mutters under his breath so only Harry can hear. “I’d warn you about Arthur discouraging potlucks, but he lets you off with the most preposterous things.”

Harry finds himself scrutinising Lancelot. “What did he do this time?”

“Nothing--Yet. I’m simply doing my best to be on good behaviour. I want to take a proper holiday next year during the winter,” Lancelot admits almost absently, swayed by the fantasy. “Christmas time, you know?”

 _No, I don’t_ , Harry doesn’t say. His Christmas days, he realises with sinking despair, despite the significant irrevocable change in his life, will be the same as it always has been.

Not that he ever thought there was anything _wrong_ with the way he spent those days before, not that it ever actively crossed his mind to be spending it with _Eggsy_ , not that he ever thought there could be anything more he _wanted._

But now--

“About that silly gift,” Lancelot begins to confess in a hushed tone. “Not gonna lie, there was a hilarious scenario with the others that you’d go on a picnic date with somebody.”

Harry stares, appalled and scandalised at the very thought.

Lancelot shrugs as if he’s innocent. “Pellinore and Gawain even suggested we officially bet on it and follow you around on your rare day offs.”

It might be possible that Harry’s eye _twitches_.

“Obviously we didn’t go through with it,” Lancelot assures him, huffing. “We don’t have that luxury in this line of work. Even if we did, we’d have better things to do with our precious time.”

“I would hope so,” Harry responds in a _very_ neutral tone.

“Oh, come off it, Galahad. It’s been what, eight--nine years?” Lancelot tries for charming humour.

Harry hums, deceptively carefree. “Is there a statute of limitations for such atrocities?”

Lancelot mutters under his breath. “It’s not a war crime.”

_It bloody well should be._

“You’re not eating?” Merlin questions, joining them. Nearby, Mordred pauses in his cautiously eager chewing.

“I already ate,” He lies easily. In his peripherals, Mordred looks down at his food and slowly puts down the spoon. Harry rolls his eyes. “It’s not poisoned.”

This child, honestly.

Almost as foolish as Eggsy Unwin who returned to the house of a man who’s shown signs of having groomed him from a very young age. For fuck’s sake.

Harry grinds his teeth.

The boy will change his mind. He’ll leave. Harry simply has to wait it out.

Thankfully, his suffering over the bœuf bourguignon isn’t for nought. Successfully in Merlin’s good graces, there’s a mission that will require Harry’s full attention for an estimated nineteen hours.

 

\--

 

Reality is disappointing. Eggsy acknowledges this as dawn cracks and the light slowly seeps in through the curtain. Honestly, he doesn't know how long it’s been.

He’s still not fucking asleep.

It’s not that he can’t sleep properly without _Galahad_ , because that would mean he’s attached to a fucking plush toy. Eggsy’s young but he’s not _that_ fucking young. Jesus, he’s turning sixteen and--

His hand twitches, out of his control.

“ _Fuuck_ ,” He finally sighs out, prolonged and frustrated as he covers his face, rubbing like that could take the exhaustion away. It probably doesn’t help that he forgot to eat before he dozed off last night. On the bright side, he technically got _some_ sleep.

He was bound to after all the effort he’s made trying to look for his shit. They weren’t in the places he remembered them last. A large chunk of his time yesterday was spent trying to familiarise himself with where Harry had moved his things. Worse, Eggsy had tried hard not to be mad about it.

That last part is arguably the most draining one. But it’s a tie to the massive effort he’s made not to break into Harry’s room.

Because he couldn’t find Galahad _anywhere_. Eggsy ran out of places to look for him. He even looked in Harry’s office which was technically a place Eggsy didn’t want to go to without Harry in there already or without his permission. But he did it, Eggsy did it.

Still no Galahad.

So that either means he’s in Harry’s room, or he’s--

For fuck’s sake.

Why couldn’t Harry just have put him in the wardrobe? He fits there just fine leaning against the corner, standing up.

Eggsy tries to remain calm and not be angry again. Harry can’t have thrown him away, right?

Not that Eggsy can blame him. He’d want any probable evidence out of sight too, even from himself. It’d be a constant reminder of what he’s allegedly done. A forty-inch plush toy shark would be the most childish thing in this house and he’d need it gone. For the sake of his own sanity.

 _Still_ , Eggsy can hope.

With that in mind, he rubs his eyes and forces himself to be more awake unless he wants to trip and die on the way downstairs. He needs a fucking shower to help stay alive for the busy day he’s going to have. Thankfully, the bathroom has largely been untouched. His toothbrush is still in the drawer along with his carefully kept soap.

Probably should wean himself off that too.

Doesn’t really explain why he guilty wraps it up with a paper towel after his shower. He accidentally catches Mr. Pickle’s gaze.

“Mate, come on, this doesn’t have to be weird. Don’t make it weird.” Hesitant, he reaches to gingerly pet at Mr. Pickle’s forehead. “Don’t tell your daddy, yeah?”

Upstairs, Eggsy stows it away in his rucksack, along with other things he doesn’t want to let go of. Postcards are shoved in between pages of his journal, souvenir magnets from all over the world are put in the bag pocket where Eggsy usually puts his snacks.

It’s fine, he plans on having a big breakfast anyway. He didn’t really eat much yesterday and he has the full day planned so he’s going to need it.

Besides, he remembers there was plenty of stuff left in the fridge. Largely his fault, that. Harry did say it was Eggsy’s responsibility to use it up. It’s unlikely Harry’s had the chance to get rid of it all and he doubts Harry would just be wasteful and throw them away like that. So for these next two weeks, on top of getting out of Harry’s way, maybe Eggsy can cook every morning and pack something for Harry just in case he wants to bring something to work. If he wants. Not that Harry wouldn’t have better options, but whatever.

Entering the kitchen, he stares suspiciously at the mess on the counter. It’s just a bunch of _stuff_ lying around. Plates, utensils, metal mugs, wine glasses, and a thermos, among _other_ things. Is that a fucking rolled up blanket?

The fuck are these?

Trying to ignore it, Eggsy opens the fridge only to close it again and rub at his eyes.

When he opens it again, it still looks the same. Eggsy’s honestly trying to keep his shit together but when he opens the freezer, it’s almost empty other than boxes of fucking _microwavables_.

Hysterical, Eggsy snaps in a screech, “Healthy, my arse.”

 

\--

 

Being in a city wide chase and having to pursue the target by jumping over a bridge is as exhausting as it sounds, especially considering that it takes at least a full two minutes to drown someone who tries to fight back.

But he did alright, Harry likes to think. The mission is accomplished after all. Slightly over the estimated time frame by two hours or so, but completed nonetheless.

Harry comes home around sundown, properly weary in the physical sense. Which means he’ll get to sleep for longer than four hours hopefully. It’s something he’s pathetically excited about. He even thinks of rewarding himself with a glass of whisky, but that idea is shot down upon entering the living area.

Eggsy’s sat on the armchair, head turned to the windows. His eyes are open, but it’s clear from the look of him that he’s just woken up from a nap, perhaps from having heard the door open.

“Please sleep properly in the designated area,” Harry finds himself saying. It comes out far softer than he intended.

“Couldn’t sleep,” Eggsy responds, a hint of surliness in his tone. Just a tad. He’s still not looking at Harry.

Despite everything, there’s a certain kind of righteousness, a cruel one, that makes him think with a bit of glee, _If you couldn’t sleep in the empty house of a man who’s shown signs of grooming you, I think you’ll find that the chances of sleeping while he’s around are even fewer._

Harry almost says this. Almost.

Because he has a certain flashback of Eggsy being in the exact same place he’s in now, sat in the armchair, head held high and waiting. That didn’t end well. Caution has Harry primed.

“I’ll tell your mother that you sleep here,” Harry suggests, looking away from the fading marks on Eggsy’s neck. “You may go home.”

Eggsy’s brows furrow. There’s a genuine hazy confusion that Harry doesn’t want to see, but it’s replaced by a flash of distress and irritation. “Where is he?”

“What.”

“ _Galahad_ ,” Eggsy emphasises, clearly trying to keep his patience and not doing a very good job.

Harry blinks. He’s confused for far longer than he should be, but with the work that he’s done, that should be forgiven. “I’m--” _here._ He stops.

It finally occurs to him.

“Do you know the amount of self-control I needed _not_ to break into your room?” Eggsy articulates. Frankly, Harry’s simply in awe.

“You couldn’t just have texted me?” Harry questions, still stunned.

“I _told_ you I didn’t want to get in your way, Mr. Hart.”

Pressing his lips together, Harry nods. “Wait here.”

Harry’s still in a state of disbelief as he goes up to his unlocked room. Finding the Ikea shark at the foot of his bed shouldn’t be a surprise. He put it there.

He wanted it away and out of sight as he worked on the guest room.

The stuffed animal looks like a _simpleton_ as it stares up at Harry, open-mouthed with an expression that can only be described as eager _depression_. Harry huffs, averting his gaze as he carries it under his arm. Goodness, why is Eggsy so insistent on this thing?

“Yeah, m’fine,” Eggsy mumbles out by the time Harry returns, sighing and pacing around with a phone pressed to his ear. “Just _home_ , where else would I be?” He rubs at his face before going still. Something within Harry _grips_ and leaves him unable to breathe properly. “I mean--I’m at--” Eggsy gestures hopelessly like the other person can see him. He turns to pace again, stopping at the sight of Harry.

There’s something like shame there, but his gaze immediately drops to the shark and he holds his hand out. Harry automatically takes a few steps, but regains enough of his mind to stop where he can just hand it over.

Eggsy hugs the shark one-handed. “Mum, I’m joking, I’m at Mr. Hart’s place--” Harry doesn’t visibly cringe but Eggsy’s giving him the phone. “Here, evidence.”

“Michelle,” Harry greets politely, turning away.

“ _Ah, thank goodness_ ,” Michelle sighs. “ _Hope he isn’t too much trouble._ ”

Harry glances to find that Eggsy’s by the window, looking out of the curtains and slightly pacing in place with the shark pressed against his neck like he’s trying to put an infant to sleep. What the bloody f--"No, of course not." He averts his gaze instead. “How’s the training?”

“ _New_ ,” Michelle admits. “ _I gotta learn some software or something. I don’t even know how to use a computer like kids do._ ”

“Persevere,” Harry murmurs. “You’ll do fine.”

“ _Yeah--Yeah, I gotta,_ ” She says, soft but determined. “ _Thanks for letting him stay._ ”

Harry shakes his head. “Don’t mention it.”

“ _Ah, shit--I gotta read this whole packet by tomorrow, tell him bye for me._ ”

The line cuts off before Harry gets to respond and he’s forced to deal with the stilted silence. Steeling himself, he takes a quiet inhale before he turns to Eggsy.

Eggsy, who has his face pressed against the shark’s gills in exhaustion. Harry suspects that he’s dozing off standing up and that shouldn’t make him _soft_.

Harry clears his throat. Eggsy grunts before looking up in a daze. The expression there immediately switches to something serious and it catches Harry off-guard.

“We need to get a few things straight, you and me,” Eggsy begins evenly, setting the shark on the armchair. Harry finds himself taking a step back. Eggsy only counters that with a step forward. Thankfully, he stops there. “This is your house.”

Harry’s brows furrow. He doesn’t want to notice that Eggsy’s grinding his teeth, but it’s there and he doesn’t know what to do about it.

“This is _your_ house,” Eggsy says again and Harry, in a spur of the moment, sees right through him. _‘Home_ ,’ Eggsy had said, natural and without thought. As much as a part of him wants that reality, Harry can understand why Eggsy feels that way. He’s spent his time here, gotten used to it, gotten _complacent_. It’s an illusion. “That’s fact. Things here are yours, so you get to choose what to do with them--But not _him_ , you understand?”

Harry stares, perplexed.

“ _Galahad_ ,” Eggsy grits out and Harry needs to take a breath. “I know you bought him, yeah, but I can pay you back. All the things you bought me, it’s fine, take them back, donate them, or sell them. It’s _all_ fine. But not him.”

To say that Harry’s appalled would be an understatement. Of all the things that’s happened, of all the things to worry about, it’s _this_?

“Galahad,” Eggsy says again, like he’s worried Harry has trouble understanding. And perhaps he has, because while logically Harry should know that Eggsy means the oversized plush animal, his brain needs a millisecond to process it because--"Galahad is _mine_ , you hear me? You can’t just take him away like that.”

Through the overwhelming mix of emotions, Harry clenches his jaw. “Aren’t you past the age for such things?” He likes to think he keeps his tone _civil_. The stone cold expression of offence he’s faced with says otherwise. “Think of the future, when you meet the woman of your dreams and she finds out you have a plush animal you can’t seem to be parted with. Such an attachment--”

“With all due _respect_ , fuck you,” Eggsy spits out, furious with what appears to be shame. “That’s none of your business.”

Stunned at the outburst, Harry can only watch as Eggsy turns to grab at the shark and stomps past him. Harry has already been _frayed_ at the edges these past couple of weeks, _worsened_ by the events these past few days. The agitation _breaks_ his control and he doesn’t even know until it’s too late.

“Why are you _here_?” Harry agonises, all his frustration and turmoil bursting out in excess. He gnashes his teeth as he turns around to find Eggsy stopped in the hallway. “Haven’t you the _slightest_ modicum of self-preservation? After all that’s happened, after all you’ve been presented with, you come back _here_ \--” _Here, where it’s not supposed to be where you belong, where it’s dangerous, where_ I _live--_ “Do you lack common sense?” He berates, cutting.

Eggsy turns at that, his face the picture of teetering rage beneath the surface. “I’m safe here.”

His words are quiet and insistent, as if they could bend reality to his will.

Harry helplessly _scoffs_ at the concept, alarmed and dreadfully concerned. “Haven’t you considered the possibility that it’s true?” He challenges, breathing in deep and setting his shoulders. “Haven’t you considered that I’m _dangerous_?”

“You _are_ ,” Eggsy snaps and Harry flinches. “I’ve seen you single-handedly wipe the floor with armed men,” Eggsy reminds him, incensed, taking a couple of steps back into the living area. “So _fuck_ you, if you think I’m fucking _stupid_.” He throws the shark on the sofa, breathing hard as he stares Harry down.

“...Then stay away from me,” Harry finds himself countering. It doesn’t matter how much he knows he will regret it. He already does. But-- _I love him_ , Harry thinks. _I want him to stay away from me._

“...You think I haven’t thought of that?” Eggsy questions, awe-struck. “You think I didn’t consider leaving you alone plenty? You think I didn’t want--Do you think that I’m _entirely_ shameless? That I don’t want to fucking keep my _dignity_? Are you--” Eggsy laughs shortly and Harry suspects that he isn’t the only one delirious from exhaustion. “Are you for real?”

Harry doesn’t know what to say. He doesn’t.

Eggsy keeps his head held high. “I’m here because you need to _know_. I’m here because I can’t leave you to think that whatever happened that night--Whatever was _said_ that night--I don’t want you to believe that it applies to you.”

Harry has to avert his gaze as the breath catches in his throat. He shakes his head, dismayed, trying to find the words to tell him off, to make him _see_ , to keep him _safe--_

“Harry, I’m here because I’m _safe_ here,” Eggsy tells him. “Fucking look at me.”

Gritting his teeth, Harry continues to shake his head, insistent and speechless.

“You’re dangerous but you’d _never_ hurt me,” Eggsy claims.

Harry shakes, itching to prove him wrong, to--

“But you’d do it to prove a point, to keep me away,” Eggsy argues, frustrated.

“For fuck’s sake,” Harry curses sharply, raising his voice. “Do you _hear_ yourself?” The despair consumes him because-- _He’s defending me. He’s making excuses, he’s--_

“I know it’s going to take a while for you to accept,” Eggsy admits. “Maybe weeks, maybe months. Hopefully not years--God, fuck, either way, I’m sorry.”

The genuine quality of his apology stuns Harry into silence.

“It’s probably not helping you for me to keep on talking, but I’m not apologising ‘cos you got me...groomed or some shit,” Eggsy exasperates, nose scrunching the term. “You gotta realise that I--” He abruptly falters, swallowing. “If anything, it was _me_.”

“What in the _world_ are you talking about?”

“You’re gonna think I’m making excuses, that I’m blaming myself,” Eggsy starts, struggling to go on. “But I--You have to realise how _manipulative_ I’ve been.” Eggsy looks scared for once. “I kept pushing you and pushing you--your boundaries, I mean--just like Dr. Hasaan said. So--” He takes a deep breath. “If anything, it was me.”

Harry’s stomach churns but he shakes his head, trying to make sense of it all.

“Harry, I’ll leave you alone,” Eggsy vows. And that should be a _good_ thing, that’s the best for the both of them, but that doesn’t make it hurt any less. “I’ll get out of your way these next two weeks and--God--” Eggsy briefly turns away, covering his eyes. “--Fuck, I’m gonna fuck up somehow, I _know_ it--But when that happens you gotta stop me, yeah?” Eggsy implores, determined, meeting his gaze head on. “I’m staying on to prove a point. I’m safe here. I’m safe with _you_. I’m going to show you just how wrong you are. We can work this out.”

Eggsy stares at him, waiting for a response in the stilted silence.

Harry finds himself eventually nodding. What else can he do? What else can he say? He’s not capable of anything. He’s dead on his feet.

“Go to bed, yeah?” Eggsy sighs, exhaustion creeping in. He gingerly grabs the shark on the sofa. “I know you’re gonna go to work again or some shit. You need all the sleep you can get.”

Eggsy makes an aborted move to leave, turning back to look at him and sighing softly. “Goodnight, Harry.”

Words get stuck in Harry’s throat and he tries to swallow them down instead, watching him leave.

 

\--

 

“M’sorry, mate,” Eggsy mumbles in the dark, hand gently patting Galahad. “I didn’t mean to, I’m sorry.”

Christ, he didn’t plan for any of that to happen. He was going to be civil, he was going to be _mature_ about it. He didn’t mean to fucking have a screaming match right then and there.

But fuck, the shame of being called out on his ‘attachment’ had him _livid_.

 _Too old to keep a stuffed toy but too young to be fucking in love with you_ , He almost spat out then. Almost.

He had a _very_ long day and he didn’t sleep well the night before. Eggsy was practically delirious all throughout the day. He still is.

Waiting to finally fall asleep doesn’t work when his brain won’t stop reminding him of his mistakes. The sound of Harry’s running shower is a comfort. Still, it isn’t enough.

His eyes has already adjusted to the darkness and he sighs, turning to stare at the ceiling. He absently moves Galahad to his front.

“Does he know, d’you reckon?” Eggsy mutters. Actually, even Eggsy doesn’t know how long has passed, but he suspects that Harry’s been in the shower for _at_ _least_ half an hour and he’s fucking concerned. “He can’t drown from a shower, can he?”

The panic creeps on him and he huffs, nervously petting Galahad. “Tell him to stop that shit. Jesus. I have to wake up early.”

He accidentally looks down to see the Ikea shark. That’s how he knows he _really_ needs some sleep because--"Why do you look so depressed? I already said sorry,” Eggsy points out, the returning guilt making him hug harder.

The shower ultimately stops and Eggsy sighs in relief.

 

\--

 

“ _Do you know what time it is?_ ” The deceptively calm voice questions.

“Quinlan, you’re a university student,” Harry points out as he waits for his laptop to power on. He glances at the time. Just as he’s suspected, he lost some time in the shower. “Ten-thirty at night is hardly bedtime.”

“ _Reliving your uni days, are you? Your wild experience could easily differ from mine_ ,” Quinlan counters.

“I can hear your keyboard in the background.”

The sound abruptly stops. Harry huffs, rubbing at his eyes. The cold shower he had certainly helps in keeping him awake. He needs to get this done and out of the way. “Perfect opportunity, you’re gonna need a computer.”

“ _Oh?_ ”

“Have you given any thought to what we’ve discussed previously?”

“ _...Christ._ ” The keyboard clacking resumes wildly. “ _Have you ever given any thought to how overtly_ preposterous _you are?_ ”

“Your father tells me often enough,” Harry grouses. “Spare me.”

“ _What properties have you picked?_ ” Quinlan gets to business, sullen.

“...What gives you the idea that I’ve already gotten to that stage?”

“ _Galahad, let’s not waste time_.”

“I have three contenders,” Harry admits, bringing them up on his screen. “Among others.”

“ _And which ones are far too grandiose?_ ”

“...What does that even mean,” Harry mutters, unlocking a drawer to find the notebook containing Eggsy’s house preferences.

“ _I_ mean _which one would Eggsy_ refuse _to live in at first sight--_ ”

 _How dare you_ , Harry almost argues. To think that his top picks would be something Eggsy denies immediately--"You need to give me some credit," He utters. “I’ve already filtered out mansions-- _Besides_ , some of these he can simply get used to.”

“ _Oh god_ ,” Quinlan sighs, long-suffering. “ _Which is the most expensive on the list?_ ”

The question has Harry very defensive. “What does it matter?”

“ _Scratch it off._ ”

“No.”

Quinlan’s tone is ominous. “ _If it has a penthouse--_ ”

“Of course not,” Harry rebukes. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

“ _The most expensive one, Galahad,_ ” Quinlan persists, impatience seeping into his tone. “ _Why is it there?_ ”

“What a silly question,” Harry mutters, flipping through the notebook and glancing at the screen. “Appliances are [updated](http://i.imgur.com/2bhUdwo.png), [it’s](http://i.imgur.com/fbrEK2o.png) [spacious](http://i.imgur.com/axUzzuI.png), every floor has a bathroom--”

“ _First of all, how many bloody floors does it have?_ ”

“...Technically [three](http://i.imgur.com/6PyF8uo.jpg),” Harry provides. Eggsy had said no more than three floors, after all.

“ _‘Technically’_ ,” Quinlan repeats.

“The ground floor never counts, you know this,” Harry says quickly before moving on. “Sotheby's has described it [as](http://i.imgur.com/yNg3kwa.png) having ' _the perfect balance of modern technology and Victorian charm_ ', there's also underfloor heating which means during the winter-- ”

“ _Galahad, if it's from the bloody_ Sotheby's _it's a_ bit _upscale--_ ”

“--Every floor has [its](http://i.imgur.com/dOIw1A4.png) [own](http://i.imgur.com/gjJsEcR.png) [room](http://i.imgur.com/suLeve2.png) and that’s very important, because he doesn’t want the rooms to share a wall.”

“ _...You asked him?_ ”

“I gave him a survey of sorts. He was none the wiser.”

There’s a sigh of disapproval. “ _Why doesn’t he want the rooms to share a wall?_ ”

“He doesn’t want his mother to overhear when he has _sex_ , Quinlan,” Harry grits out, precise and hostile.

“ _For_ fuck’s _sake, I did_ not _want to hear that,_ ” Quinlan protests in an outburst, vaguely reminiscent of his father. “ _I do_ not _even want to_ think _about it-_ -”

“Nor do I,” Harry barks, cutting him off. “Move on.”

The sudden silence is tense and Harry abruptly realises that while the rooms might not share a wall, they do share the ceiling and the floor. Which is explicitly one of the things Eggsy had railed against. It’s doable if either Eggsy or Michelle skips a floor, but the second floor has the roof [terrace](http://i.imgur.com/eYDFEyQ.png) that Eggsy would like and--

“ _Galahad…_ ”

“What?” He answers distractedly, trying to find a way to keep this house on the list. It’s a wonderful house.

“ _How much is this property?_ ” Quinlan asks casually.

“Three million and--” Harry pauses, realising his carelessness.

“ _Bloody hell,_ ” Quinlan curses, all calm overshadowed by the disbelief. “ _I’m somehow convinced your_ own _house doesn’t even cost that much--_ ”

“I bought it a long time ago, the market wasn’t as competitive then,” Harry argues listlessly. “Plus, inflation--”

“ _No. Take it off the list._ ”

“It’s hidden away in the centre of London, it’s near the tube--Which he doesn’t even have to take, because it’s walking distance to school. Less than ten minutes and--”

There’s a short laugh of hilarious disbelief. “ _Where is it?_ ”

“...Kensington Church Walk,” Harry provides cautiously. Quinlan could find the actual property and have it removed from the internet. Harry’s not taking any chances.

“ _...Near St. Mary Abbot’s Church?_ ” Quinlan huffs. “ _Are you trying to keep him celibate?_ ”

Harry pauses, looking at the property map and tilting his head. “I hadn’t thought of it that way. But now that you mention it--”

Quinlan groans.

“--He might get inspired,” Harry continues. “You never know. He might be on the straight and narrow and you’d have one less thing to stress about.”

There’s a moment of silence where Quinlan’s no doubt imagining that scenario. Harry is as well. He’s leaving, after all. That’s final. What he isn’t sure about is if he’ll be able to check on Eggsy remotely. How can Harry move on if he’s constantly dodging surveillance from Kingsman to constantly check on Eggsy?

The future is uncertain, but the best Harry can do is ensure that Eggsy will have all he might need.

“ _Mmm_ ,” Quinlan hums. “ _Far-fetched, in all honesty._ ”

Harry sighs. “A man can hope.”

There’s also St. Mary Abbot’s Primary School adjacent to the church, so in addition to the bells tolling and the nuisance of mass, there would also be the noise of children nearby.

Best not to make Eggsy suffer that.

“Alright, I _might_ just cross it off,” Harry admits defeat.

“ _Next?_ ”

“[Hyde Park Street](http://i.imgur.com/wvhOHWp.jpg),” Harry provides. “A ten minute walk from two tube stations on either side. Central Line, which would get him to Holland Park Station in less than seven minutes if he leaves from Lancaster Gate, then another ten or so minutes to walk to school.”

“ _...Hmm. Facing Hyde Park[directly](http://i.imgur.com/duEjS1t.png),_ ” Quinlan finally says, tone unreadable. “ _Crowded?_ ”

“Not as much. No dramatic gates within a three minute walk. Most tourists enter through Hyde Park Corner in the south side or Cumberland Gate near Marble Arch and so on.”

“ _There’s a direct entrance through Hyde Park Street._ ”

“Yes, but quieter and more inconspicuous. It should lead through the less populated area of the park. Thus, less commotion.”

“ _Mmm. How much?_ ”

Harry clicks his tongue. “Stop asking, that’s not something you’re meant to worry about,” He lectures.

“ _Fine. Expand on it._ ”

“All in [one floor](http://i.imgur.com/dBeAtJd.png). [Updated](http://i.imgur.com/a0H3yqY.jpg), [spacious](http://i.imgur.com/VZb6Kmd.jpg),” Harry lists out as he scrolls through the photos. “Master’s [bedroom](http://i.imgur.com/kosftd6.jpg) and the second to largest ensuite [bedroom](http://i.imgur.com/DXebo7u.jpg) are separated by a [hallway](http://i.imgur.com/yVHEBCQ.jpg). There would be [two](http://i.imgur.com/iKYJyhS.jpg) [extra](http://i.imgur.com/hiSg75o.jpg) rooms, one of which he can easily turn into a study room or an activity room--Or both. Negative side is mainly that it’s on the ground floor. While there’s no stairs to suffer other than the four steps to the entrance door of the building, that means there’s no balcony, but they’d have a massive [garden](http://i.imgur.com/UiJ6heT.jpg)\--”

“ _Does he_ need _a balcony?_ ” Quinlan questions, mild annoyance and confusion colouring his tone.

“Well, no, but he’d _like_ it--”

“ _For hell’s sake,_ ” Quinlan groans, prolonged with a whiny quality. It’s something Harry’s never heard before. Quinlan’s always been the type to avoid being seen as childish.

“What?” Harry asks, confused.

“ _Nothing_ ,” Quinlan responds, clearly piqued.

“Moving on,” Harry continues. “ _Because_ it’s a ground floor, if London floods again, they _might_ have a problem. There’s also an outside [gate](http://i.imgur.com/PgYlOiE.jpg) from the street that leads to the garden, which means that someone could technically climb over it and sneak in through the kitchen door. Security problem. Also, it’s technically a flat, which means there will be people on the upper floors. Their activity level could cause some disturbance through the ceiling. We’d also have to screen them, if not the whole building.”

“ _...Let’s move on to the next one, shall we?_ ”

Harry frowns. “But--”

“ _We’ll go back to that one,_ ” Quinlan tells him. “ _This next one’s the last, yes?_ ”

“...Technically.”

The responding sigh is one of agony. “ _At least tell me it’s not in the millions._ ”

“No,” Harry attempts to soothe. “Not in the million _s_.”

“ _Don’t think I didn’t catch that,_ ” Quinlan threatens.

“It’s a _little_ over _a_ million,” Harry clarifies. “But it’s London,” He attempts to argue. “What are you expecting?”

“ _Does my father have a medical condition brought on by your antics?_ ” Quinlan suddenly questions. “ _It’s_ you _, isn’t it? The source of despair and late night caffeine--_ ”

Harry rolls his eyes at the tirade, rubbing at his face tiredly until he realises--"I’ll be sure to tell him you called him that."

There’s a very telling pause where Quinlan finally realises the same thing, followed by a squawk and threatening hiss. “ _Over my dead body._ ”

“Goodness,” Harry finds himself a tad emotional despite how miserable his life has been. “You sound just like him.”

“ _Do you want help or not?_ ” Quinlan snaps.

“The last one is in Hippodrome Mews,” Harry relents. “Ten minutes away from Holland Park Station, largely needless, because around ten minutes more and he’s already at school.” Something abruptly occurs to Harry. “Can he ride a bicycle?”

“ _Is the miraculous house lottery going to come with a bicycle?_ ” Quinlan snorts.

“Hmm. That can be arrange at a later time.”

“ _Oh for hell’s sake--_ ”

“[Two floors](http://i.imgur.com/Ed299BC.png), updated [appliances](http://i.imgur.com/Gkvi8eN.jpg), [convenient](http://i.imgur.com/FxOVZmy.jpg) [layout](http://i.imgur.com/VGbi1I3.jpg),” Harry lists out over Quinlan’s seemingly helpless outbursts. “Master’s bedroom doesn’t share a wall with one of the other rooms, _numerous[storage](http://i.imgur.com/aSsGVIK.jpg)_  on the ground floor near the kitchen, and, of course, a [roof](http://i.imgur.com/lnCRiKF.jpg) [terrace](http://i.imgur.com/I1nZLFI.jpg) on the highest floor where the [reception room](http://i.imgur.com/huVzDNS.jpg) is, a place he can turn into a dedicated study area.”

“ _Of course_ ,” Quinlan repeats. Harry suspects there might be something mocking about it. “ _Downsides?_ ”

“Well, the room that doesn’t share a wall with the master’s is smaller and it doesn’t have a built-in wardrobe--”

“ _Oh, the tragedy. Guess he won’t be having sex anytime soon._ ”

What a concept.

“The point is--”

“ _This is in[Notting Hill](http://i.imgur.com/g0aAJQO.png),_ ” Quinlan belatedly realises.

Harry distractedly hums. “Yes, so it seems. There’s also [park](http://i.imgur.com/nY4wTOj.jpg) across the road.”

“ _Christ._ ”

“There’s also a nursery school further down but hopefully that won’t be too much of a bother,” Harry admits. Unlike the problem that was St. Mary Abbot’s Primary School near the first property, toddlers should be less noisy than five to eleven year olds, right?

“ _Should be fine. He more than tolerates children. He likes them._ ”

“Oh.” The response is absentminded. “Does he, now?” Harry is weighted down by the late hour, the exhaustion, and the very concept of Eggsy’s future without him. “...Do you think he’s the type to name his children after his friends?”

“... _What_.”

“What are the chances he names it after you?” Harry finds himself wondering in the abstract. It’s a helpless thought, the future. Eggsy’s future. Worse, his _own_. Someday it shouldn’t hurt, but for now it does.

_What are the chances he’ll name it after me?_

It’s also a ridiculous concept, a torturous one, but he’ll take what he can get.

“ _Why in the world would--_ ” Quinlan abruptly stops. “ _What’s wrong with this house? It seems perfect._ ”

Brought back to the present, Harry has to shake his head to get away from the thoughts. “It’s not...well, I don’t want to use the word ‘fancy’, but it’s more...domestic.”

“ _It’s a house, Galahad, it’s meant to be domestic_.”

“It’s smaller than the others,” He points out. What he doesn't say is that if he's spending this much money, he'd rather go for the best one.

“ _Anything’s bigger than the Unwin flat._ ”

That’s true, however--

“ _Eggsy has to feel at home. How can he do that with excessively luxurious amenities?_ ”

“It’s not excessive,” Harry tries to argue, also offended for Eggsy. “It’s a matter of getting used to it. He can get used to the other ones as well.” Somehow, it feels like he’s making excuses and he doesn’t know why. Also, there's only one sink. Eggsy wanted two sinks side by side, the previous properties have that. “I’ll send you photos and details from the three along with other notable ones.”

There’s a sigh and things quiet down other than Quinlan’s computer noises. Harry takes the chance to put his hands on his face. He has to return to HQ in the morning and volunteer for whatever mission needs to be dealt with immediately. Also, he needs to find a realtor willing to play along with whatever he has planned.

“ _Galahad_.”

“Mmm?” He blinks himself awake.

“ _Notting Hill._ ”

Harry’s face contorts at the quick decision. “Why?”

“... _Because_ ,” Quinlan responds shortly. It’s almost suspicious how nothing follows.

Tired and frustrated, Harry huffs. “Give me one good reason I don’t know about.”

“ _Because he’ll feel at_ home,” Quinlan emphasises.

“How would you know?” Harry argues stubbornly.

“ _You asked for my help for a reason._ ”

Harry looks through the photos again, trying to see why Quinlan thinks that way. It’s not terrible, it’s probably the [furnishing](http://i.imgur.com/YVbimU9.jpg) of the ugly [sofas](http://i.imgur.com/58l6Fdb.jpg) and the nearly cluttered items that make Harry judgmental. He has to remind himself that it’ll be different once it’s all gone--Unless they’re selling it furnished, dear god. He hopes not. Harry has plans for certain alterations, whichever property it may be.

He finds himself stopping at the [photo](http://i.imgur.com/XWPE16s.jpg) that would be Eggsy’s room. There’s a large art print full of butterflies on the wall by the bed. Harry didn’t actively notice that before. For fuck’s sake. The shame burns him awake.

“ _Notting Hill,_ ” Quinlan insists.

Harry sighs. “He’ll have a choice between all of them if I don’t find something better.”

“ _And how will you pull that off without being suspicious?_ ”

“I’ll find a way. You’ll be helping me as well, therefore--”

“ _Oh, will I?_ ”

“Yes, you will.” Harry absently flips the page on his notebook. “Moving on, there’s also the matter of his university fund, which--”

“ _What._ ”

“Whichever university he goes to, there needs to be some sort of scholarship for whatever guidelines he falls into.”

“ _...I see._ ”

“He will have other things to worry about, money should be one thing less.”

“ _Mmm_ ,” Quinlan hums, eerily quiet and hushed. “ _How much?_ ”

Harry clicks through the documents in his laptop, bringing up a spreadsheet. “Currently, the tuition fees are around three thousand. It’s bound to rise. He’d go to uni in three to four years, depending if he takes a gap year. Thus, the projected rate increase going from the previous years--”

“ _I did mean it,_ ” Quinlan interrupts. “ _About the economy going to shit._ ”

They spend a moment in silence before Harry nods. “Right. Five thousand per year sound reasonable?”

“ _Christ. You’re gonna pay it in full? That’s bound to be suspicious._ ”

“You’ll find a way. You’ll be the one dealing with it. Do as you see fit. Installments and whatnot.”

“ _...And where will you be?_ ”

Harry pauses. “Work.”

Quinlan’s tone is casual. “ _Can’t take a few hours off work to deal with this?_ ”

“Three years from now?” Harry wonders with an airy tone. “Who knows.”

“ _What else?_ ”

“The issue of living costs is arguably more expensive than the tuition,” Harry begins.

“ _And how would I go on about giving_ scholarships _for_ accommodation _?_ ” Quinlan challenges.

“As I said, you’ll find a way--Ten thousand a year should make it affordable enough, no? Mrs. Unwin has her own savings for him. It would make her feel good about herself if she gets to use it.”

“ _Christ. I could squander all your money,_ ” Quinlan points out.

“You don’t need my money,” Harry responds. “You could easily fuck the world over to get it.”

“ _...Cursing in my presence,_ ” Quinlan eventually mutters. “ _How crude_.”

Harry snorts. “Will you be telling your father?”

“ _Of course not. Conversations regarding Eggsy Unwin will always be top secret._ ”

The reminder is comforting. How lucky Eggsy is, to have such a friend. The burden of such an issue also finds its way to creep up on Harry. Eggsy will always be a secret indeed. In some alternate world, Harry would be allowed to openly lavish him with things. It’s a thought he needs to stop having. There’s no use. That’s not his reality.

 _“What else?_ ”

Harry shakes his head, absently flipping through the notebook. A note on a page catches his eye. “Ah--Yes, on the topic of my life insurance, there needs to be a slight adjustment--”

“ _What._ ”

“Life insurance,” Harry repeats blandly. “My field of work--Necessary.”

“ _...Right. And?_ ”

“Kingsman had given me the option, a long time ago, whether or not to have a portion of my salary deducted every cycle to go into a sort of fund.” Harry presses his lips together. “I don’t really know why I said yes, but here we are. I chose the bare minimum. Nevertheless, all my assets are to be liquidated upon termination as well to add to said fund, but--I don’t know.” Harry is perplexed. He’s never had to think this through before.

Not like this.

“ _...And who is your current beneficiary?_ ”

Harry finds himself clearing his throat. “It’s divided. Into three.”

“ _Three?_ ” Quinlan repeats, disbelieving.

“One is to Oxford University, one is to--Actually, you don’t need to know what they are. The point of this is to change that.”

“ _Right_.” Quinlan replies. “ _...Is one of them my father?_ ” He can’t seem to help but ask.

Harry sighs. “For hell’s sake--”

“ _I knew it!_ ” Quinlan yells. “ _I bloody--_ ”

“It’s because I cause him stress, not because I’m dating him--”

“Obviously. _I know that_ now,” Quinlan points out, haughty.

“How many covers do you have?”

“ _...Pardon?_ ”

“You went by ‘Daniel’ during the Edinburgh crisis,” Harry points out. “I doubt you would’ve been lax in presenting appropriate documents and background.”

“ _...Perhaps._ ”

Harry sighs. “As long as you don’t get in trouble, as long as I don't catch you, I don’t care what you do. I’m asking because I need to find a way to have you be my recipient.”

“ _Galahad_ ,” Quinlan cautions. “ _Do you ever realise, sometimes, how you might be..._ superfluous _?_ ”

“The hazards of my career hardly needs to be expanded upon.”

“ _No, but how long have you been there? You’re still alive,_ ” Quinlan points out.

“It won’t always be that way.”

The silence goes on for far longer than it should.

“ _...Is there something I should know?_ ”

It’s instinct to lie, but he has enough of his mind left to stop himself. What he’s asking Quinlan to do, it won’t be easy.

“I’m--” Harry falters. He’s never said it out loud, not outside HQ. Suppose he's always known that saying it makes it real. “I’m leaving.”

“. _..What do you mean you’re_ leaving _?_ ” Quinlan’s tone is dangerously calm.

“Been re-assigned,” Harry bends the truth a little. “Long-term assignments. Overseas.”

The silence is thick and Harry shouldn’t have a reason to be scared. He finds himself apprehensive either way.

“ _Does he--Does he know?_ ”

Harry grinds his teeth. “No. Not yet.”

“ _‘Yet’_. _That implies you_ will _, yes?_ ” The words are imploring and threatening at the same time. Harry finds himself shaking his head because he doesn’t want to, he doesn’t.

Eggsy has admitted it, his manipulative streak. It’s something Harry already has mildly acknowledged in the background. What Eggsy also doesn’t know is something that Harry’s realised recently; He’s weak. He’s weak for him either way. For all of Harry’s training and experience, he’s weak for Eggsy Unwin. It’s a great source of shame, because it doesn’t matter how manipulative Eggsy gets or how good he is at it. That’s not the issue.

Harry is the adult. He’s thirty-one years older. He needs to be the one to put a stop to things, to _resist_.

Eggsy’s being manipulative is simply another excuse. He knows this in theory, but reality is much harder. Which is why Eggsy can never know about that part of him. He’d rather die with that secret than poison him any further.

Things are tumultuous as they already are. If Eggsy finds out he’s leaving, there’s no telling what Eggsy will do. There’s no telling how Harry will react, despite all his wishes. One can never truly know until they’re faced with the situation. He can’t risk that. He can’t.

“ _Harry_ ,” Quinlan grits out, ominous and unnatural. The use of his name has Harry petrified. “ _You can’t do this. Need I_ remind _you what happened the last time you left without a warning?_ ”

“In my defence, I was in a coma.”

“ _In your_ offence _,_ ” Quinlan hisses. “Y _ou could have made contact and explained after._ ”

“In what world would a grown man stay in contact with a child who has no relation to him?” Harry fumes, risking Quinlan's opinion of him in agitation. “What right did I have to stay?”

The silence is an answer itself. For all of Quinlan’s logic and abilities, there’s no answer to that question. Because there shouldn’t be. Harry can only hope that the nature of his relationship to Eggsy won't be tainted in Quinlan's eyes after that outburst.

“ _You still could’ve softened the blow,_ ” Quinlan eventually argues. “ _Bloody_ insufferable _, that boy was._ ”

“He’s always insufferable,” Harry mutters, but he thinks it comes out far softer than he intended.

“ _Christ, you both are,_ ” Quinlan agonises. “ _You have to tell him. You have to or I will._ ”

“Don’t be facetious. That would mean admitting you’ve known me all this time. The betrayal would drive him... _sulky_ in that way that he ends up being.”

“ _Oh yes, because ‘sulky’ is the worst outcome of that scenario,_ ” Quinlan mutters. “ _When are you leaving_?”

After a moment of debating with himself, Harry confesses. “...Around the second week of September.”

“ _I...I honestly don’t know if that’s better or worse--Fuck._ ” He sounds frustrated, but worse, he sounds helpless the way that Harry feels.

“I’ll tell him,” Harry lies. In truth, he genuinely doesn’t know. “I will.”

Quinlan lets out a long exhale of weariness and Harry feels a slight tinge of remorse.

“I’ve asked you to take on a number of tasks,” Harry acknowledges, opening his drawer again.

“ _Yes. Yes, you have._ ”

“There’s one last thing.”

“ _Typical_.”

“Marc Collins-Rector,” Harry recites, staring at _The Sun_ article. He spells the name out properly, and despite Quinlan’s perplexed silence, Harry can hear the keyboard in response.

“ _What_.”

“You will find out things about that person,” Harry begins carefully. “And--”

“ _I’m not your servant, you know_ ,” Quinlan points out, annoyed. “ _I don’t have to--_ ”

“--Do anything I say,” Harry finishes for him. “I’m fully aware. But in this instance, you won’t have a choice.” Harry hears further keyboard tapping in the background, growing frenzied by the second. “Your curiosity is far too savage to leave you alone,” Harry finds himself saying softly. “Your sense of justice, if it’s anything like your father’s, will just be as frustrating.”

There’s an abrupt noise of protest, but Harry already _knows_ and Harry already feels the uncharacteristic remorse from assigning him this task regardless. The things Quinlan will find out won’t be easy to stomach.

“In your case,” Harry continues, “You won’t be restricted as Merlin is. Merlin has someone to answer to. You don’t.”

“ _I thought you said I needed to keep out of trouble,_ ” Quinlan reminds him, eerily quiet. “ _Am I above the law, Galahad?_ ”

“No. Of course not--But you will find a way. Whatever you choose to do, whatever you end up doing--” Harry debates whether or not to say the words he initially thought of, but he perseveres. “--Know that I support you.”

For a moment, there’s only heavy silence.

“ _...But the less you know, the better, yes?_ ”

Harry sighs. Quinlan clearly takes that for an answer.

 

>> 

 

Harry forgoes his suit jacket, wearing the red robe over his attire instead. He brings the suit jacket with him downstairs and hangs it on the coat stand in the foyer. He finds himself staring at Eggsy’s trainers and ignores the guilt as he places the tracker.

It’s only a precaution. Harry doesn’t know who _‘Henry’_ is. It’s ironic that for all his experience in his line of work, he knows that getting this information from Eggsy will be futile. At least, not without employing the tactics reserved for targets in the field. And so he has to resort to this.

He sets his briefcase by the sofa where he intends to sleep for the night. It’s only half past eleven, he won’t be leaving for work until early morning, but he will be prepared. It might also be a good idea to get the hunger out of the way as well.

Harry had forgotten about that.

The memory of when he last ate is hazy at best. Trying to remember is a task that’s curtailed by the sight of the tall meerkat [notepad](http://i.imgur.com/wplntHD.jpg) on the fridge. Appalled, Harry can only stare.

Eggsy must have put it there. It’s a purchase of his from London Zoo, after all.

Harry ignores it, opening the fridge and then the freezer for a microwavable meal only to find small butterfly sticky notes on the very top box.

 

‘ _Remember that time you were judging me for a cupnoodle?_ ’

‘ _And you were all ‘constant microwaving isn’t good for your health’ blahblahblah?_ ’

 _‘Healthy, my arse._ ’

 

The warmth comes from the _embarrassment_ of being caught, Harry thinks. Nothing else.

As he fully takes the box out, he catches sight of another butterfly note on the box underneath it.

 

‘ _Stop! I only ate half of that beef stuff. Eat the rest._ ’

 

Harry glances down to find the container front and centre.

Just to be spiteful, Harry microwaves the meal and the leftover at the same time. He’s a grown man, he can’t be told what to do by a child. As he waits, Harry looks around the dim kitchen to find all the picnic items neatly set to one side. 

Why must Eggsy _do_ that?

What teenager likes to clean up after himself much less after other people?

He huffs, glancing at the meerkat notepad. The meerkat is standing tall, looking rather politely eager. Harry looks away before giving in and flipping up the cover to see the note.

 

‘ _????_ ’

 

Harry frowns, noting the small piece of ripped paper on the notepad rings. There’s nothing more after the note, but he lifts the page to see the accentuated marks made by the writing on the previous paper. It’s not hard to see despite the slightly dim lighting because Eggsy seems to have written the initial notes harshly, making deep indentations that inevitably last through the next few pages.

It’s only a matter of parsing out the words and the letters made by Eggsy’s furious handwriting. When Harry _does_ figure it out, he finds himself flinching slightly.

 

‘ _THE FUCK HAPPENED TO OUR FOOD?!?_ ’

 

 _Buggering shit_. Harry had forgotten about that.

He didn’t expect Eggsy to actually stay over, so of course he got rid of most of the food in the fridge. Cooking it away was a better option than letting them go bad by themselves. Conscience has him grinding his teeth.

 

‘ _Im gonna kill you once you get home, watch_ ’

‘ _I was gonna cook u shit. Ur loss_.’

‘ _No more salty spaghetti for u motherfucker_ ’

 

Goodness. Why is this boy endearing?

It hurts _terribly_.

Harry turns away trying to breathe, but it does no good, there’s no more room in his lungs to expand. Abruptly, he catches sight of the microwave countdown and finds himself _running_ to stop it before it gets to beep atrociously four times. It would do no good waking Eggsy in the middle of the night, not when Harry doesn’t want to be caught red-handed.

 

\--

 

Eggsy grumbles himself awake before falling asleep again. The next time he comes to, it’s still dark, but the time on his mobile says it’s almost five in the morning. Around an hour and the sun will be up.

Shit.

He changes his clothes as quiet as he can and tries to make his bed in the dark, botching it up slightly to put Galahad there, partly covering him with the duvet. Honestly, he’s gotten about six hours of sleep and it’s the best one he’s had in days.

Eggsy’s light on his feet when he walks down the stairs and goes through the hallway. His eyes constantly adjust to the dark, but before he gets to turn to the foyer, he double-takes at the sight of bare feet on the sofa’s far-end armrest. It might be summer but it’s fucking _cold_ during dark and--

Why is Harry sleeping here?

The living area’s curtains are set to the side, letting a bit of moonlight in, but Eggsy can’t even see Harry’s face from this vantage point. Still, who else could it be? In that red robe too.

It shouldn’t matter, because Eggsy should leave. He has things to do. Covering Harry with a blanket isn’t an option.

But he finds himself ever so slowly taking one step after another until he’s looking down at Harry’s sleeping face.

 _God_ , Eggsy thinks helplessly. _Why do I love him?_

The feeling fills him up until it takes effort to breathe and he should _leave_ already goddammit.

But Harry has his hands primly placed on his stomach and _fuck_ Eggsy’s brain for thinking of funerals and the age difference between them and--

Eggsy grits his teeth like that could stop his stinging eyes.

 _Fuck_.

He’s weak, he’s fucking weak and he knows it’s wrong and he’s a fucking piece of _shit_ but it doesn’t feel like a choice when he closes his eyes and bends down to lightly brush his mouth against Harry’s forehead.

Eggsy doesn’t even fucking breathe. Not for a few seconds, no. He’s terrified. He’s terrified Harry will wake up and hate him--or worse, hate _himself_. Most of all, Eggsy’s fucking terrified because he’s only _fifteen_ and he’s in _love_ and he feels like he never will be again. It doesn’t make sense. It’s _cruel_.

Eggsy finally breathes him in, quiet as he can. He holds that breath and thinks that it powers him enough to leave.

 

>> 

 

Tapping his fingers as he waits, Eggsy looks through the grimy glass of the telephone booth out to Baker Street. People are already out and about at this hour, getting ready for the rest of the world to catch on.

“ _...Gary Unwin._ ”

Eggsy grinds his teeth at the voice. He keeps his tone civil. “Mr. Holmes.”

“ _Very early for you to be awake,_ ” Mycroft Holmes muses, suspicious wonder colouring his tone. “ _Teenager on his last weeks of summer holiday._ ”

The condescending fuck.

“Cavendish has set up a meeting on Saturday,” Eggsy gets straight to business. “After I drop off the last of those thingies you gave me, I’m done.”

“ _Saturday?_ " There's something about the way he says it, but Eggsy can't parse it out. "You _can’t possibly mean_ tomorrow _, can you?_ ”

“Tomorrow.”

There's a long-suffering sigh. “ _You have to report things on_ time _, honestly--_ ”

Eggsy shrugs, taking what pleasure he can get at causing the man dismay. “Just slipped my mind I guess.”

“ _Gary--_ ”

“Goodbye.”

 

 

 


End file.
